Life  at  High  Tide 


EDITED   BY 
WILLIAM   DEAN    HOWELLS 

AND 
HENRY   MILLS  ALDEN 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
New  York  and  London 


L 


Copyright,  1894,  1895,  1896,  1897,  1898,  1904,  1906, 
1907,  by  HARDER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


MARGARET  DELAND 
THE    IMMEDIATE    JEWEL 

ANNE  O'HAGAN 

"AND  A.'IELS  CAME—" 

GRACE  ELLERY  CHANNING 

IJLEPERS  OF  A  CHARGE 

ABBY  MEGUIRE  ROACH 

A   WORKING  BASIS 

MARY   TRACY   EARLE 

THE  GLASS  DOOR 

MURIEL  CAMPBELL  DYAR 

ELIZABETH  AND  DAVIE 

PHILIP  VERRILL  MIGHELS 
BARNEY  DOON,  BRAGGART 

EMERY    POTTLE 
THE  REPARATION 

ROSINA  HUBLEY  EMMET 

THE  YEARLY  TRIBUTE 

OCTAVE  THANET 

A  MATTER  OF  RIVALRY 


274302 


Preface 

There  is  a.  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 
Which,    taken    at    the    flood,    leads    on    to 
fortune. 

THUS  the  poet— and  poetry,  of  the  old 
order  at  least,  always  waiting  upon  great 
events,  has  found  in  the  high-tide  flota 
tions  of  masterful  heroes  to  fortune 
themes  most  flatteringly  responsive  to  its 
own  high  tension. 

The  writer  of  fiction  has  no  such  af 
flatus,  nc  such  high  pitch  of  life,  as  to 
outward  circumstance,  in  his  representa 
tion  of  it,  as  the  poet  has;  and  therefore 
his  may  seem  to  the  academic  critic  the 
lesser  art— but  it  is  nearer  to  the  realities 
of  common  human  existence.  He  deals 
with  plain  men  and  women,  and  the  un- 
majestic  moments  of  their  lives. 

"Life  at  High  Tide  "—the  title  se 
lected  for  this  little  volume  of  short 
stories,  and  having  a  real  significance 
for  each  of  them,  which  the  reader  may 


Preface 

find  out  for  himself — does  not  reflect  the 
poet's  meaning,  and,  least  of  all,  its  easy 
optimism.  In  every  one  of  these  stories 
is  presented  a  critical  moment  in  one 
individual  life — sometimes,  as  in  "  The 
Glass  Door"  and  in  "Elizabeth  and 
Davie,"  in  two  lives;  but  it  leads  not  to 
or  away  from  fortune — it  simply  dis 
closes  character;  also,  in  situations  like 
those  so  vividly  depicted  in  "  Keepers  of 
a  Charge  "  and  "  A  Yearly  Tribute,"  the 
tense  strain  of  modern  circumstance.  In 
all  these  real  instances  there  are  luminous 
points  of  idealism — of  an  idealism  im 
plicit  but  translucent. 

The  authors  here  represented  have  won 
exceptional  distinction  as  short  -  story 
writers,  and  the  examples  given  of  their 
work  not  only  are  typical  of  the  best 
periodical  fiction  of  a  very  recent  period 
— all  of  them  having  been  published 
within  five  years — but  illustrate  the  dis 
tinctive  features,  as  unprecedented  in 
quality  as  they  are  diversified  in  char 
acter,  which  mark  the  extreme  advance 
in  this  field  of  literature. 

H.  M.  A. 


The   Immediate   Jewel 

BY    MARGARET   DELAND 

"  Good  name,  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my 

lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls." 

— Othello. 

I 

WHEN  James  Graham,  carpenter, 
enlisted,  it  was  with  the  as 
surance  that  if  he  lost  his  life 
his  grateful  country  would  provide  for 
his  widow.  He  did  lose  it,  and  Mrs.  Gra 
ham  received,  in  exchange  for  a  husband 
and  his  small  earnings,  the  sum  of  $12 
a  month.  But  when  you  own  your  own 
very  little  house,  with  a  dooryard  for 
chickens  (and  such  stray  dogs  and  cats 
as  quarter  themselves  upon  you),  and 
enough  grass  for  a  cow,  and  a  friendly 
neighbor  to  remember  your  potato-barrel, 
why,  you  can  get  along — somehow.  In 
Lizzie  Graham's  case  nobody  knew  just 
how,  because  she  was  not  one  of  the 
confidential  kind.  But  certainly  there 


2  Harper's  Novelettes 

were  days  In  winter  when  the  house  was 
chilly,  and  months  when  fresh  meat 
was  unknown,  and  years  when  a  new 
dress  was  not  thought  of.  This  state  of 
things  is  not  remarkable,  taken  in  con 
nection  with  an  income  of  $144  a  year, 
and  a  New  England  village  where  people 
all  do  their  own  work,  so  that  a  woman 
has  no  chance  to  hire  out. 

All  the  same,  Mrs.  Graham  was  not 
an  object  of  charity.  Had  she  been  that, 
she  would  have  been  promptly  sent  to 
the  Poor  Farm.  No  sentimental  con 
sideration  of  a  grateful  country  would 
have  moved  Jonesville  to  philanthropy; 
it  sent  its  paupers  to  the  Poor  Farm  with 
prompt  common  sense. 

When  Jonesville's  old  school-teacher, 
Mr.  Nathaniel  May,  came  wandering 
back  from  the  great  world,  quite  penni 
less,  almost  blind,  and  with  a  faint  mist 
across  his  pleasant  mind,  Jonesville  saw 
nothing  for  him  but  the  Poor  Farm.  .  .  . 
Nathaniel  had  been  away  from  home  for 
many  years;  rumors  came  back,  occa 
sionally,  that  he  was  going  to  make  his 
fortune  by  some  patent,  and  Jonesville 
said  that  if  he  did  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  the  town,  for  Nathaniel  wasn't 
one  to  forget  his  friends.  "He'll  give 
us  a  library,"  said  Jonesville,  grinning; 


The  Immediate  Jewel  3 

"  Nat  was  a  great  un  for  books."  How 
ever,  Jonesville  was  still  without  its 
library,  when,  one  August  day,  the  stage 
dropped  a  gentle,  forlorn  figure  at  the 
door  of  Dyer's  Hotel. 

"I'm  Nat  May,"  he  said;  "well,  it's 
good  to  get  home!" 

He  brought  with  him,  as  the  sum  of 
his  possessions,  a  dilapidated  leather 
hand-bag  full  of  strange  wheels  and  lit 
tle  reflectors,  and  small,  scratched  lenses; 
the  poor  clothes  upon  his  back;  and 
twenty-four  cents  in  his  pocket.  He 
walked  hesitatingly,  with  one  hand  out 
stretched  to  feel  his  way,  for  he  was  near 
ly  blind;  but  he  recognized  old  friends 
by  their  voices,  and  was  full  of  simple 
joy  at  meeting  them. 

"  I  have  a  very  wonderful  invention," 
he  said,  in  his  eager  voice,  his  blind  eyes 
wide  and  luminous ;  "  and  very  valuable. 
But  I  have  not  been  financially  successful, 
so  far.  I  shall  be,  of  course.  But  in  the 
city  no  one  seemed  willing  to  wait  for 
payment  for  my  board,  so  the  authorities 
advised  me  to  come  home;  and,  in  fact, 
assisted  me  to  do  so.  But  when  I  finish 
my  invention,  I  shall  have  ample  means." 

Jonesville,  lounging  on  the  porch  of 
Dyer's  Hotel,  grinned,  and  said,  "  That's 
all  right,  Nat;  you'll  be  a  rich  man  one 


4  Harper's  Novelettes 

of  these  days!"  And  then  it  tapped  its 
forehead  significantly,  and  whispered^ 
"  Too  bad !"  and  added  (with  ill-concealed 
pleasure  at  finding  new  misfortune  to 
talk  about)  that  the  Selectmen  had  told 
Mr.  Dean,  the  superintendent,  that  he 
could  call  at  Dyer's  Hotel — to  which  Na 
thaniel,  peacefully  and  pennilessly,  had 
drifted — and  take  him  out  to  the  Farm. 

"  Sam  Dyer  says  he'll  keep  him  till  next 
week,"  Mrs.  Butterfield  told  Lizzie  Gra 
ham;  "but,  course,  he  can't  just  let  him 
set  down  at  the  hotel  for  the  rest  of  his 
natural  life.  And  Nat  May  would  do 
it,  you  know." 

"  I  believe  he  would,"  Lizzie  Graham 
admitted ;  "  he  was  always  kind  of  simple 
that  way,  willin'  to  take  and  willin'  to 
give.  Don't  you  mind  how  he  used  to  be 
always  sharin'  anything  he  had?  James 
used  to  say  Nat  never  knowed  his  own 
things  belonged  to  him." 

"  Folks  like  that  don't  never  get  rich," 
Mrs.  Butterfield  said ;  "  but  there !  you 
like  'em." 

The  two,  women1  were  walking  down  a 
stony  hillside,  each  with  a  lard-pail  full 
of  blueberries.  It  was  a  hot  August 
afternoon;  a  northwest  wind,  harsh  and 
dry,  tore  fiercely  across  the  scrub-pines  and 
twinkling  birches  of  the  sun-baked  pas- 


The  Immediate  Jewel  $ 

tures.  Lizzie  Graham  held  on  to  her  sun- 
bonnet,  and  stopped  in  a  scrap  of  shade 
under  a  meagre  oak  to  get  breath. 

"My!  I  don't  like  wind,"  she  said, 
laughing. 

"  Let's  set  down  a  while,"  Mrs.  Butter- 
field  suggested. 

"  I'd  just  as  leaves,"  Lizzie  said,  and 
took  off  her  blue  sunbonnet  and  fanned 
herself.  She  was  a  pretty  woman  still, 
though  she  was  nearly  fifty;  her  hair 
was  russet  red,  and  blew  about  her  fore 
head  in  little  curls;  her  eyes,  brown  like 
a  brook  in  shady  places,  and  kind.  It 
wa:*  a  mild  face,  but  not  weak.  Below 
them  the  valley  shimmered  in  the  heat; 
the  grass  was  hot  and  brittle  underfoot; 
popples  bent  and  twisted  in  a  scorching 
wind,  and  a  soft,  dark  glitter  of  move 
ment  ran  through  the  pines  on  the  op 
posite  hillside. 

"  The  Farm  ain't  got  a  mite  of  shade 
round  it,"  Lizzie  said;  "just  sets  there 
at  the  crossroads  and  bakes." 

"  You  was  always  great  for  trees,"  Mrs. 
Butterfield  said ;  "  your  house  is  too  dark 
for  my  taste.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  cut  down 
that  biggest  ellum." 

"  Cut  it  down !  Well,  I  suppose  you'll 
laugh,  but  them  trees  are  real  kind  o' 
friends.  There!  I  kuowed  you'd  laugh; 


6  Harper's  Novelettes 

but  I  wouldn't  cut  down  a  tree  any  more 
'an  I'd— I  don't  know  what  I" 

"  They  do  darken." 

"  Some.  But  only  in  summer;  and 
then  you  want  'em  to.  And  the  Poor 
Farm  ain't  got  a  scrap  of  shade ! — I  won 
der  if  he  feels  it,  bein'  sent  there  ?" 

"I  ain't  seen  him,  but  Josh  told  me 
he  was  terrible  broke  up  over  it.  Told 
me  he  just  set  and  wrung  his  hands  when 
Hiram  Wells  told  him  he'd  got  to  go. 
Josh  said  it  was  real  pitiful.  But  what 
can  you  do?  He's  'bout  blind;  and  he 
ain't  just  right,  either." 

"How  ain't  he  just  right?" 

"Well,  you  know,  Nathaniel  was  al 
ways  one  of  the  dreamin'  kind;  a  real 
good  man,  but  he  wa'n't  like  folks." 

Lizzie  nodded. 

"And  if  you  remember,  he  was  all 
the  time  inventin'  things.  Well,  now 
he's  got  set  that  he  can  invent  a  machine 
so  as  you  can  see  the  dead.  I  mean 
spirits.  Well,  of  course  he's  crazy. 
Josh  says  he's  crazy  as  a  bluefish.  But 
what's  troublin'  him  now  is  that  he  can't 
finish  his  machine.  He  says  that  if  he 
goes  to  the  Farm,  what  with  him  bein' 
blindish  and  not  able  to  do  for  himself, 
that  his  glasses  and  wheels — and  dear 
knows  what  all  that  he's  got  for  ghost- 


The  Immediate  Jewel  7 

seem' — will  get  all  smashed  up.  An'  I 
guess  he's  'bout  right.  They're  terrible 
crowded,  Mis'  Dean  says.  Nat  allows 
that  if  he  could  stay  at  Dyer's,  or  some 
place,  a  couple  of  months,  where  he  could 
work,  quiet,  he'd  make  so  much  money 
that  he'd  pay  his  board  ten  times  over. 
Crazy.  But  then,  I  can't  help  bein'  sorry 
for  him.  Some  folks  don't  mind  the 
troubles  of  crazy  folks,  but  I  don't  know 
why  they  ain't  as  hard  to  bear  as  sensible 
folks'  troubles." 

"  Harder  maybe,"  Lizzie  said. 

"Josh  said  he  just  set  and  wrung  his 
hands  together,  and  he  says  to  Hiram 
Wells,  he  says,  '  Gimme  a  month — and 
I'll  finish  it.  For  the  sake,'  he  says,  '  of 
the  blessed  dead.'  Gave  you  goose-flesh, 
Josh  said." 

"You  can  see  that  he  believes  in  his 
machine." 

"  Oh,  he's  just  as  sure  as  he's  alive !" 

"But  why  can't  he  finish  it  at  the 
Farm?  I  guess  Mis'  Dean  would  give 
him  a  closet  to  keep  it  in." 

"Closet?  Mercy!  He's  got  it  all 
spread  out  on  a  table  in  his  room  at  the 
hotel.  Them  loafers  go  up  and  look 
at  it,  and  bust  right  out  laughin'.  Josh 
says  it's  all  little  wheels  and  lookin'- 
glasses,  and  they  got  to  be  balanced  just 


8  Harper's  Novelettes 

so.  Mis'  Dean  ain't  got  a  spot  he  could 
have  for  ten  minutes  at  a  time." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  Lizzie  Graham  said :  "  Does  he 
feel  bad  at  hem'  a  pauper?  The  Mays 
was  always  respectable.  Old  Mis'  May 
was  real  proud." 

Mrs.  Butterfield  ruminated :  "  Well,  he 
don't  like  it,  course.  But  he  said  (you 
know  he's  crazy) — '  I  am  nothiri','  he 
says,  '  and  my  pride  is  less  than  nothin'. 
But  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  Dead,  grant 
me  time,'  he  says.  Ain't  it  pitiful?  Al 
most  makes  you  feel  like  lettin'  him 
wait.  But  what's  the  use  ?" 

Lizzie  Graham  nodded.  "But  there's 
people  would  pay  money  for  one  of  them 
machines — if  it  worked." 

"That's  what  he  said;  he  said  he'd 
make  a  pile  of  money.  But  he  didn't 
care  about  that,  except  then  he  could  pay 
board  to  Dyer,  if  Dyer'd  let  him  stay." 

"An'  won't  he?" 

"  No ;  and  I  don't  see  as  he  has  any 
call  to,  any  more  'an  you  or  me." 

Lizzie  Graham  plucked  at  the  dry 
grass  at  her  side.  "That's  so.  'Tain't 
one  person's  chore  more  'an  another's. 
But — there!  If  this  wa'n't  Jonesville, 
T  believe  I'd  let  him  stay  with  me  till 
he  finishes  up  his  machine." 


The  Immediate  Jewel  9 

"Why,  Lizzie  Graham!"  cried  Mrs. 
Butterfield,  "what  you  talkin'  about? 
You  couldn't  do  it — you.  You  ain't  got 
to  spare,  in  the  first  place.  And  any 
way,  him  an  unmarried  man,  and  you 
a  widow  woman!  Besides,  he'll  never 
finish  it." 

Lizzie's  face  reddened  angrily.  "  Guess 
I  could  have  a  visitor  as  well  as  anybody." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  you  wouldn't  be 
a  good  provider,"  Mrs.  Butterfield  said, 
turning  red  herself.  "I  meant  folks 
would  talk." 

"Folks  could  find  something  better  to 
talk  about,"  Lizzie  said ;  "  Jonesville  is 
just  nothin'  but  a  nest  o'  real  mean, 
lyin'  gossip!" 

"Well,  that's  so,"  Mrs.  Butterfield 
agreed,  placidly. 

Lizzie  Graham  put  on  her  sunbonnet. 
"  Better  be  gettin'  along,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Butterfield  rose  ponderously. 
"And  they'd  say  you  was  a  spiritualist, 
too;  they'd  say  you  took  him  to  get  his 
ghost-machine  made." 

"That's  just  what  I  would  do,"  the 
other  answered,  sharply.  "  I  ain't  a  mite 
of  a  spiritualist,  and  I  don't  believe  in 
ghosts ;  but  I  believe  in  bein'  kind." 

"I  believe  in  keepin'  a  good  name," 
Mrs.  Butterfield  said,  dryly. 


io  Harper's  Novelettes 

They  went  on  down  the  windy  pasture 
slope  in  silence;  the  mullein  candles 
blossomed  shoulder-high,  and  from  under 
foot  came  the  warm,  aromatic  scent  of 
sweet-fern.  Once  they  stopped  for  some 
more  blueberries,  with  a  desultory  word 
about  the  heat ;  then  they  picked  their  way 
around  juniper-bushes,  and  over  great 
knees  of  granite,  hot  and  slippery,  and 
through  low,  sweet  thickets  of  bay.  At 
the  foot  of  the  hill  the  shadows  were 
stretching  across  the  road,  and  the  wind 
was  flagging. 

"My,  ain't  the  shade  good?"  Lizzie 
said,  when  they  stopped  under  her  great 
elm ;  "  I  couldn't  bear  to  live  where  there 
wa'n't  trees." 

"  There's  always  shade  on  one  side  or 
another  of  the  Poor  Farm,  anyway,"  Mrs. 
Butterfield  said,  "  'cept  at  noon.  And 
then  he  could  set  indoors.  It  won't 
be  anything  so  bad,  Lizzie.  Now  don't 
you  get  to  worryin'  'bout  him; — I  know 
you,  Lizzie  Graham!"  she  ended,  her 
eyes  twinkling. 

Lizzie  took  off  her  sunbonnet  again 
and  fanned  herself;  she  looked  at  her 
old  neighbor  anxiously. 

"  Say,  now,  Mis'  Butterfield,  honest : 
do  you  think  folks  would  talk  ?" 

"  If  you   took   Nat  in   and  kep'  him  ? 


The  Immediate  Jewel  n 

Course  they  would!  You  know  they 
would;  you  know  this  here  town.  And 
no  wonder  they'd  talk.  You're  a  nice- 
appearin'  woman,  Lizzie,  yet.  No;  I 
ain't  one  to  flatter;  you  ~be.  And  ain't 
he  a  man?  and  a  likely  man,  too,  for  all 
he's  crazy.  Course  they'd  talk!  Now, 
Lizzie,  don't  you  get  to  figgerin'  on  this. 
It's  just  like  you!  How  many  cats  have 
you  got  on  your  hands  now  ?  I  bet  you're 
feedin'  that  lame  dog  yet." 

Mrs.  Graham  laughed,  but  would  not 
say. 

"  Nat  will  get  along  at  the  Farm  real 
good,  after  he  gets  used  to  it,"  Mrs.  But- 
terfield  went  on,  coaxingly;  "Dean  ain't 
hard.  And  Mis'  Dean's  many  a  time 
told  me  what  a  good  table  they  set." 

"'Tain't  the  victuals  that  would 
trouble  Nat  May." 

"  Well,  Lizzie,  now  you  promise  me 
you  won't  think  anything  more  about 
him  visitin'  you  ?"  Mrs.  Butterfield  look 
ed  at  her  anxiously. 

"  I  guess  Jonesville  knows  me,  af 
ter  I've  lived  here  all  my  life!"  Lizzie 
said,  evasively. 

"Knows  you?"  Mrs.  Butterfield  said; 
"what's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  You 
know  Jonesville;  that's  more  to  the 
point." 


12  Harper's  Novelettes 

"It's  a  mean  place!"  Lizzie  said, 
angrily. 

"  I'm  not  sayin'  it  ain't,"  Mrs.  Butter- 
field  agreed.  "  Well,  Lizzie,  you're  good, 
but  you  ain't  real  sensible,"  she  ended, 
affectionately. 

Lizzie  laughed,  and  swung  her  gate 
shut.  She  stood  leaning  on  it  a  minute, 
looking  after  Mrs.  Butterfield  laborious 
ly  climbing  the  hill,  until  the  road  be 
tween  its  walls  of  rusty  hazel-bushes  and 
its  fringe  of  joepye-weed  and  golden- 
rod  turned  to  the  left  and  the  stout, 
kindly  figure  disappeared.  The  great 
elm  moved  softly  overhead,  and  Lizzie 
glanced  up  through  its  branches,  all 
hung  with  feathery  twigs,  at  the  deep 
August  sky. 

"  Jonesville's  never  talked  about  me/" 
she  said  to  herself,  proudly.  "I  mayn't 
be  wealthy,  but  I  got  a  good  name. 
Course  it  wouldn't  do  to  take  Nat;  but 
my!  ain't  it  a  poor  planet  where  you 
can't  do  a  kind  act?" 

II 

Nathaniel  May  sat  in  his  darkness, 
brooding  over  his  machine.  Since  it  had 
been  definitely  arranged  that  he  was  to 
go  to  the  Poor  Farm,  he  did  not  care 
how  soon  he  went;  there  was  no  need,  he 


The  Immediate  Jewel  13 

told  Dyer,  to  keep  him  for  the  few  days 
which  had  been  promised. 

"I  had  thought,"  he  said,  patiently, 
"that  some  one  would  take  me  in  and 
help  me  finish  my  machine — for  the  cer 
tain  profit  that  I  could  promise  them. 
But  nobody  seems  to  believe  in  me," 
he  ended. 

"  Oh,  folks  believe  in  you,  all  right, 
Mr.  May,"  Dyer  told  him;  "but  they 
don't  believe  in  your  machine.  See?" 

Nathaniel's  face  darkened.  "  Blind — 
blind!"  he  said.  , 

"  How  did  it  come  on  you  ?"  Dyer 
asked,  sympathetically. 

"I  was  not  speaking  of  myself," 
Nathaniel  told  him,  hopelessly. 

There  was  really  no  doubt  that  the 
poor,  gentle  mind  had  staggered  under 
the  weight  of  hope;  but  it  was  hardly 
more  than  a  deepening  of  old  vagueness, 
an  intensity  of  absorbed  thought  upon 
unpractical  things.  The  line  between 
sanity  and  insanity  is  sometimes  a  very 
faint  one;  no  one  can  quite  dare  to  say 
just  when  it  has  been  crossed.  But  this 
rnild  creature  had  crossed  it  somewhere 
in  the  beginning  of  his  certainty  that  he 
was  going  to  give  the  world  the  means 
of  seeing  the  unseen.  That  this  great 
gift  should  be  flung  into  oblivion,  all 


14  Harper's  Novelettes 

for  the  want,  as  he  believed,  of  a  little 
time,  broke  his  poor  heart.  When  Lizzie 
Graham  came  to  see  him,  she  found  him 
sitting  in  his  twilight,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  head  in  his  long,  thin  hands. 
On  one  hollow  cheek  there  was  a  glisten 
ing  wet  streak.  He  put  up  a  forlornly 
trembling  hand  and  wiped  it  away  when 
he  heard  her  voice. 

"  Yes ;  yes,  I  do  recognize  it,  ma'am-,"  he 
said ;  "  I  can  tell  voices  better  than  I  used 
to  be  able  to  tell  faces.  You  are  Jim 
Graham's  wife?  Yes;  yes,  Lizzie  Gra 
ham.  Have  you  heard  about  me,  Lizzie? 
I  am  not  going  to  finish  my  machine. 
I  am  to  be  sent  to  the  Farm." 

"Yes,  I  heard,"  she  said. 

They  were  in  the  big,  bare  office  of 
the  hotel.  The  August  sunshine  lay  dim 
upon  the  dingy  window-panes;  the  walls, 
stained  by  years  of  smoke  and  grime, 
were  hidden  by  yellowing  advertisements 
of  reapers  and  horse  liniments;  in  the 
centre  was  a  dirty  iron  stove.  A  poor, 
gaunt  room,  but  a  haven  to  Nathaniel 
May,  awaiting  the  end  of  hope. 

"I  heard,"  Lizzie  Graham  said;  she 
leaned  forward  and  stroked  his  hand. 
"  But  maybe  you  can  finish  it  at  the 
Farm,  Nathaniel?" 

"No,"   he   said,   sadly;   "no;   I  know 


The  Immediate  Jewel  15 

what  it's  like  at  the  Farm.  There  is  no 
room  there  for  anything  but  bodies.  No 
time  for  anything  but  Death." 

"How  long  would  it  take  you  to  put 
it  together?"  she  asked;  and  Dyer,  who 
was  lounging  across  his  counter,  shook 
his  head  at  her,  warningly. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  to  it,  Mrs.  Gra 
ham,"  he  said,  under  his  breath;  "he's — " 
He  tapped  his  forehead  significantly. 

"  Oh,  man  I"  Nathaniel  cried  out,  pas 
sionately,  "you  don't  know  what  you  say! 
Are  the  souls  of  the  departed  '  nothing '  ? 
I  have  it  in  my  hand — right  here  in  my 
hand,  Lizzie  Graham — to  give  the  world 
the  gift  of  sight.  And  they  won't  give 
me  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  roof  over  my 
head  till  I  can  offer  it  to  them!" 

"  Couldn't  somebody  put  it  together  for 
you?"  she  asked,  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"  I  would  try,  Nathaniel ; — you  could  ex 
plain  it  to  me ;  I  could  come  and  see  you 
every  day,  and  you  could  tell  me." 

His  face  brightened  into  a  smile.  "  No, 
kind  woman.  Only  I  can  do  it.  I  can't 
see  very  clearly,  but  there  is  a  glimmer 
of  light,  enough  to  get  it  together.  But 
it  would  take  at  least  two  months;  at 
least  two  months.  The  doctor  said  the 
light  would  last,  perhaps,  three  months. 
Then  I  shall  be  blind.  But  if  I  could 


1 6  Harper's  Novelettes 

give  eyes  to  the  blind  world  before  I  go 
into  the  dark,  what  matter  ?  What  mat 
ter,  I  say  ?"  he  cried,  brokenly. 

Lizzie  was  silent.  Dyer  shook  his 
head,  and  tapped  his  forehead  again; 
then  he  lounged  out  from  behind  his 
counter,  and  settled  himself  in  one  of 
the  armchairs  outside  the  office  door. 

Nathaniel  dropped  his  head  upon  his 
breast,  and  sunk  back  into  his  dreams. 
The  office  was  very  still,  except  for  two 
bluebottle  flies  butting  against  the  ceil 
ing  and  buzzing  up  and  down  the  win 
dow  -  panes.  A  hot  wind  wandered  in 
and  flapped  a  mowing-machine  poster  on 
the  wall ;  then  dropped,  and  the  room  was 
still  again,  except  that  leaf  shadows 
moved  across  the  square  of  sunshine  on 
the  bare  boards  by  the  open  door.  When 
Lizzie  got  up  to  go,  he  did  not  hear  her 
kind  good-by  until  she  repeated  it,  touch 
ing  his  shoulder  with  her  friendly  hand. 
Then  he  said,  hastily,. with  a  faint  frown: 
"  Good-by.  Good-by."  And  sank  again 
into  his  daze  of  disappointment. 

Lizzie  wiped  her  eyes  furtively  before 
she  went  out  upon  the  hotel  porch;  there 
Dyer,  balancing  comfortably  on  two  legs 
of  his  chair,  detained  her  with  drawling 
gossip  until  Hiram  Wells  came  up,  and, 
lounging  against  a  zinc-sheathed  bar  be- 


The  Immediate  Jewel  17 

tween  two  hitching-posts,  added  his  opin 
ion  upon  Nathaniel  May's  affairs. 

"  Well,  Lizzie,  seen  any  ghosts  ?"  he 
began. 

"  I  seen  somebody  that  '11  be  a  ghost 
pretty  soon  if  you  send  him  off  to  the 
Farm,"  Lizzie  said,  sharply. 

"Well,"  Hiram  said,  "I  don't  see 
what's  to  be  done  —  'less  some  nice, 
likely  woman  comes  along  and  marries 
him." 

Dyer  snickered.  Lizzie  turned  very 
red,  and  started  home  down  the  elm- 
shaded  street.  When  she  reached  her 
little  gray  house  under  its  big  tree,  she 
went  first  into  the  cow-barn — a  crumbling 
lean-to  with  a  sagging  roof — to  see  if  a 
sick  dog  which  had  found  shelter  there  was 
comfortable.  It  seemed  to  Lizzie  that  his 
bleared  eyes  should  be  washed;  and  she 
did  this  before  she  went  through  her 
kitchen  into  a  shed-room  where  she  slept. 
There  she  sat  down  in  hurried  and  frown 
ing  preoccupation,  resting  her  elbows 
on  her  knees  and  staring  blankly  at  the 
braided  mat  on  the  floor.  As  she  sat 
there  her  face  reddened;  and  once  she 
laughed,  nervously.  "An*  me  'most 
fifty!"  she  said  to  herself.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  she  went  to  see 
Nathaniel  again. 


1 8  Harper's  Novelettes 

He  was  up-stairs  in  a  little  hot  room 
under  the  sloping  eaves.  He  was  bending 
over,  straining  his  poor  eyes  close  to 
some  small  wheels  and  bands  and  re 
flectors  arranged  on  a  shaky  table.  He 
welcomed  her  eagerly,  and  with  all  the 
excitement  of  conviction  plunged  at  once 
into  an  explanation  of  his  principle. 
Then  suddenly  conviction  broke  into 
despair :  "  I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to 
finish  it!"  He  gave  a  quick  sob,  like  a 
child.  He  had  forgotten  Lizzie's  presence. 

"  Nathaniel,"  she  said,  and  paused ; 
then  began  again:  "Nathaniel — " 

"Who  is  here?  Oh  yes:  Lizzie  Gra 
ham.  Kind  woman;  kind  woman." 

"  Nathaniel,  you  know  I  ain't  got 
means;  I'm  real  poor, — " 

"  Are  you  ?"  he  said,  with  instant  con 
cern.  "  I  am  sorry.  If  I  could  help  you 
— if  I  had  anything  of  my  own — or  if 
they  will  let  me  finish  my  machine;  then  I 
shall  have  all  the  money  I  want,  and  I  will 
help  you;  I  will  give  you  all  you  need. 
I  will  give  to  all  who  ask!"  he  said,  joy 
fully  ;  then  again,  abruptly :  "  But  no ; 
but  no ;  I  am  not  allowed  to  finish  it." 

"  Nathaniel,  what  I  was  going  to  say 
was — I  am  real  poor.  I  got  James's  pen 
sion,  and  our  house  out  on  the  upper 
road ; — do  you  mind  it — a  mite  of  a  house, 


The  Immediate  Jewel  19 

with  a  big  elm  right  by  the  gate?  And 
woods  on  the  other  side  of  the  road? 
Real  shady  and  pleasant.  And  I  got 
eight  hens  and  a  cow; — well,  she'll  come 
in  in  September,  and  I'll  have  real  good 
milk  all  winter.  Maybe  this  time  I  could 
raise  the  calf,  if  it's  a  heifer.  Generally 
I  sell  it;  but  if  you — well,  it  might  pay 
to  raise  it,  if — we — "  Lizzie  stammered 
with  embarrassment. 

Nathaniel  had  forgotten  her  again ;  his 
head  had  fallen  forward  on  his  breast, 
and  he  sighed  heavily. 

"You  see,  I  am  poor,"  Lizzie  said; 
"you  wouldn't  have  comforts." 

Nathaniel  was  silent. 

Lizzie  laughed,  nervously.  "  Well  ? 
Seems  queer;  but — will  you?" 

Nathaniel,  waking  from  his  troubled 
dream,  said,  patiently:  "What  did  you 
say?  I  ask  your  pardon;  I  was  not  lis 
tening." 

"  Why,"  Lizzie  said,  her  face  very  red, 
"I  was  just  saying — if — if  you  didn't 
mind  getting  married,  Nathaniel,  you 
could  come  and  live  with  me  ?" 

"Married?"  he  said,  vacantly.  "To 
whom?" 

"  Me,"  she  said. 

Nathaniel  turned  toward  her  in  aston 
ishment.  "  Married !"  he  repeated. 


20  Harper's  Novelettes 

"If  you  lived  with  me,  you  could  fin 
ish  the  machine;  there's  an  attic  over 
my  house ;  I  guess  it's  big  enough.  Only, 
we'd  have  to  be  married,  I'm  afraid. 
Jonesville  is  a  mean  place,  NathanieL 
We'd  have  to  be  married.  But  you  could 
finish  the  machine." 

He  stood  up,  trembling,  the  tears  sud 
denly  running  down  his  face.  "Finish 
it?"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  <(  Oh,  you 
are  not  deceiving  me?  You  would  not 
deceive  me?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  couldn't  finish 
it,"  she  told  him,  kindly.  "  But,  Nathan 
iel,  mind,  I  am  poor.  You  wouldn't  get 
as  good  victuals  even  as  you  would  at 
the  Farm.  And  you'd  have  to  marry 
me,  or  folks  would  talk  about  me.  But 
you  could  finish  your  machine." 

Nathaniel  lifted  his  dim  eyes  to 
heaven. 

Ill 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Butter-field,  "  I  sup 
pose  you  know  your  own  business.  But 
my  goodness  sakes  alive !" 

"I  just  thought  I'd  tell  you,"  Lizzie 
said. 

"  But,  Lizzie  Graham !  you  ain't  got 
the  means." 

"  I  can  feed  him." 

"  There's  his  clothes ;  why,  my  land — " 


The  Immediate  Jewel  21 

"  I  told  Hiram  Wells  that  if  the  town 
would  see  to  his  clothes,  I'd  do  the  rest. 
They'd  have  to  clothe  him  if  he  went  to 
the  Farm." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Butterfield,  "  I  nev 
er  in  all  my  born  days —  Lizzie,  now 
don't.  My  goodness, — I — I  ain't  got  no 
words !  Why,  his  victuals — 

"He  ain't  hearty.  Sam  Dyer  told  me 
he  wa'n't  hearty." 

"  Well,  then,  Sam  Dyer  had  better  fee(J 
him,  'stid  o'  puttin'  it  onto  you !" 

Lizzie  was  silent.  Then  she  said,  with 
a  short  sigh,  "  Course  if  I  could  'a'  just 
taken  him  in  an'  kep'  him — but  you 
said  folks  would  talk—" 

"  Well,  I  guess  so.  Course  they'd  talk 
— you  know  this  place.  You've  always 
been  well  thought  of  in  Jonesville,  but 
that  would  'a'  been  the  end  of  you,  far 
as  bein'  respectable  goes." 

"Well,  you  can't  say  this  ain't  re 
spectable." 

"No;  I  can't  say  it  ain't  respectable; 
but  I  can  say  it's  the  foolishest  thing  I 
ever  heard  of.  An'  wrong  too;  'cause 
anything  foolish  is  wrong." 

"Anything  cruel  is  wrong,"  Lizzie 
said,  stubbornly. 

"  Well,  you  was  crazy  to  think  of  hav- 
in'  him  visit  you.  But  it  don't  follow, 


22  Harper's  Novelettes 

'cause  he  can't  be  visitin'  you,  that  you 
got  to  go  marry  him." 

"I  got  to  do  something,"  Lizzie  said, 
desperately ;  "  I'd  never  have  a  minute?s 
peace  if  he  had  to  go  to  the  Farm." 

"He'd  be  more  comfortable  there." 

"  His  stomach  might  be,"  Lizzie  ad 
mitted. 

"Well,  then!"  Mrs.  Butterfield  de 
clared,  triumphantly.  "  Now  you  just  let 
him  go,  Lizzie.  You  just  be  sensible." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  marry  him.  I'm  goin' 
to  take  him  round  to  Rev.  Niles  day  after 
to-morrow;  he  said  he'd  marry  us." 

Mrs.  Butterfield  gasped.  "Well,  if 
Rev.  Niles  does  that!—  There!  You 
know  he  was  a  'Piscopal;  they'll  do 
anything.  What  did  he  say  when  you 
told  him?" 

"  Oh,  nothin'  much ;  I  asked  him  about 
him  visitin'  me,  an'  he  said  it  wa'n't  just 
customary.  Said  it  was  better  to  get 
married.  Said  we  must  avoid  the  ap 
pearance  of  evil." 

"Well,  I  ain't  sayin'  he  ain't  right; 
but — "  Then,  in  despair,  she  turned  to 
ridicule:  "Folks  '11  say  you're  marryin' 
him  'cause  you  expect  he'll  make  money 
on  his  ghost-machine!" 

"Well,  you  tell  'em  I  don't  believe 
in  ghosts.  That  '11  settle  that." 


The  Immediate  Jewel  23 

"If  folks  knew  you  didn't  believe  in 
any  hereafter,  they'd  say  you  was  a 
wicked  woman!"  cried  Mrs.  Butterfield, 
angrily ; — "  an'  that  fool  machine — " 

"I  never  said  I  didn't  believe  in  a 
hereafter.  Course  his  machine  ain't 
sense.  That's  what  makes  it  so  pitiful." 

"  He'll  never  finish  it." 

"Course  he  won't.  That's  why  I'm 
takin'  him." 

"Well,  my  sakes!"  said  Mrs.  Butter- 
field,  helplessly.  And  then,  angrily 
again,  "  Course  if  you  set  out  to  go  your 
own  way,  I  suppose  you  don't  expect 
no  help  from  them  as  thinks  you  are 
all  wrong?" 

"I  do  not,"  Lizzie  said,  steadily;  and 
then  a  spark  glinted  in  her  leaf -brown 
eye:  "Folks  that  have  means,  and  yet 
would  let  that  poor  unfortunate  be  taken 
to  the  Farm — I  wouldn't  expect  no  help 
from  'em." 

"  Well,  Mis'  Graham,  you  can't  say  I 
ain't  warned  you." 

"No,  Mis'  Butterfield,  I  can't,"  Liz 
zie  responded;  and  the  two  old  friends 
parted  stiffly. 

The  word  that  Lizzie  Graham — "poor 
as  Job's  turkey!" — was  going  to  marry 
Nathaniel  May  spread  like  grass  fire 
through  Jonesville.  Mrs.  Butterfield 


24  Harper's  Novelettes 

preserved  a  cold  silence,  for  her  distress 
was  great.  To  hear  people  snicker  and 
say  that  Lizzie  Graham  must  be  "dyin' 
anxious  to  get  married  " ;  that  she  must 
be  "  lottin'  considerable  on  a  good  ghost- 
market  " ;  that  she  "  took  a  new  way  o* 
gettin'  a  hired  man  without  payin'  no 
wages,"  —  these  things  stung  her  sore 
heart  into  actual  anger  at  the  friend  she 
loved.  But  she  did  not  show  it. 

"  Mis'  Graham  probably  knows  her 
own  business,"  she  said,  stiffly,  to  any  one 
who  spoke  to  her  of  the  matter.  Even 
to  her  own  husband  she  was  non-commit 
tal.  Josh  sat  out  by  the  kitchen  door, 
tilting  back  against  the  gray  -  shingled 
side  of  the  house,  his  hands  in  his  pock 
ets,  his  feet  tucked  under  him  on  the 
rung  of  his  chair.  He  was  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  and  he  had  unbuttoned  his 
baggy  old  waistcoat,  for  it  was  a 
hot  night.  Mrs.  Butterfield  was  on 
the  kitchen  door  -  step.  They  could 
look  across  a  patch  of  grass  at  the 
great  barn,  connected  with  the  little  house 
by  a  shed.  Its  doors  were  still  open, 
and  Josh  could  see  the  hay,  put  in  that 
afternoon.  The  rick  in  the  yard  stood 
like  a  skeleton  against  the  fading  yellow 
of  the  sky;  some  fowls  were  roosting 
comfortably  on  the  tongue.  It  was  very 


The  Immediate  Jewel  25 

peaceful;  but  Mrs.  Butterfield's  face  was 
puckered  with  anxiety.  "Yet  I  don't 
know  as  I  can  do  anything  about  it," 
she  said,  her  foot  tapping  the  stone  step 
nervously;  "she  ain't  got  no  call  to  be 
so  foolish." 

"  Well,"  Josh  said,  removing  his  pipe 
from  his  lips  and  spitting  thoughtfully, 
"  seems  Mis'  Graham's  bound  to  get  some 
kind  of  a  husband!"  Then  he  chuckled, 
and  thrust  his  pipe  back  under  his  long, 
shaven  upper  lip. 

"  Now  look  a-here,  Josh  Butterfield ; 
you  don't  want  to  be  talkin'  that  way," 
his  wife  said,  bitterly.  "  Bad  enough  to 
have  folks  that  don't  know  no  better 
pokin'  fun  at  her;  but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
have  you  do  it." 

"  Well,  I  was  only  just  sayin'— " 

"  Well,  don't  you  say  it ;  that's  all." 

Josh  poked  a  gnarled  thumb  down  into 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  reflectively.  "  You 
ain't  got  a  match  about  you,  have  you, 
Emmy?"  he  said,  coaxingly. 

Mrs.  Butterfield  rose  and  went  into 
the  kitchen  to  get  the  match;  when  she 
handed  it  to  him,  she  said,  sighing,  "  I'm 
just  'most  sick  over  it." 

"You  do  seem  consid'able  shuck  up," 
Josh  said,  kindly. 

"Well,— I  know  Lizzie's  just  doin'  it 


26  Harper's  Novelettes 

out  of  pure  goodness;  but  she'll  'most 
starve." 

"  I  don't  see  myself  how  she's  calcula- 
tin'  to  run  things,"  Josh  ruminated; 
"course  Jim's  pension  wa'n't  much,  but 
it  was  somethin'.  And  without  it — " 

"Without  it?— land!  Is  the  govern 
ment  goin'  to  stop  pensions?  There!  I 
never  did  like  the  President !" 

"  No ;  the  government  ain't  goin'  to 
stop  it.  Lizzie  Graham's  goin'  to  stop 
it." 

"  What  on  airth  you  talkin'  about?" 

"Why,  Emmy  woman,  don't  ye  know 
the  United  States  government  ain't  no 
such  fool  as  to  go  on  payin'  a  woman 
for  havin'  a  dead  husband  when  she 
catches  holt  of  a  livin'  one?  Don't  you 
know  that?" 

"  Josh  Butterfield  !  —  you  don't 
mean — " 

"Why,  that's  true.  Didn't  you  know 
that?  Well,  well!  Why,  a  smart  widow 
woman  could  get  consid'able  of  a  in 
come  by  sendin'  husbands  to  wars,  if  it 
wa'n't  for  that.  Well,  well;  to  think  you 
didn't  know  that !  Wonder  if  Lizzie  does  ?" 

"She  don't!"  Mrs.  Butterfield  said, 
excitedly;  "course  she  don't.  She's  cal- 
culatin'  on  havin'  that  pension  same  as 
Why.  she  can't  marry  Nat,  Good- 


The  Immediate  Jewel  27 

ness!  I  guess  I'll  just  step  down  and 
tell  her.  Lucky  you  told  me  to-night; 
to-morrow  it  would  V  been  too  late !" 

IV 

Lizzie  Graham  was  sitting  in  the  dark 
on  her  door-step;  a  cat  had  curled  up 
comfortably  in  her  lap;  her  elm  was 
faintly  murmurous  with  a  constant  soft 
rustling  and  whispering  of  the  lace  of 
leaves  around  its  great  boughs.  Now 
and  then  a  tree-toad  spoke,  or  from  the 
pasture  pond  behind  the  house  came  the 
metallic  twang  of  a  bullfrog.  But  nothing 
else  broke  the  deep  stillness  of  the  sum 
mer  night.  Lizzie's  elbow  was  on  her 
knee,  her  chin  in  her  hand ;  she  was  lis 
tening  to  the  peace,  and  thinking — not 
anxiously,  but  seriously.  After  all,  it 
was  a  great  undertaking:  Nathaniel 
wasn't  "hearty,"  perhaps,  —  but  when 
you  don't  average  four  eggs  a  day  (far 
in  November  and  December  the  hens 
do  act  like  they  are  possessed!);  when 
sometimes  your  cow  will  be  dry;  when 
your  neighbor  is  mad  and  won't  remem 
ber  the  potato-barrel — the  outlook  for 
one  is  not  simple;  for  two  it  is  sobering. 

"But  I  can  do  it,"  Lizzie  said  to  her 
self,  and  set  her  lips  hard  together. 

The  gate  clicked  shut,  and  Mrs.  Butter- 


28  Harper's  Novelettes 

field  came  in,  running  almost.  "Look 
here,  Lizzie  Graham, — oh  my!  wait  till 
I  get  my  breath ; — Lizzie,  you  cant  do  it. 
Because — "  And  then,  panting,  she  ex 
plained.  "  So,  you  see,  you  just  can't," 
she  repeated. 

Lizzie  said  something  under  her  breath, 
and  stared  with  blank  bewilderment  at 
her  informant. 

"Maybe  Josh  don't  know?" 

"Maybe  he  docs  know,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Butterfield.  "  Goodness !  makes  me  trem 
ble  to  think  if  he  hadn't  told  me  to-night ! 
Supposin'  he  hadn't  let  on  about  it  till 
this  time  to-morrow?" 

Lizzie  put  her  hands  over  her  face  with 
an  exclamation  of  dismay. 

"Oh,  well,  there!"  Mrs.  Butterfield 
said,  comfortably ;  "  I  don't  believe  Nat  '11 
mind  after  he's  been  at  the  Farm  a 
bit.  Honest,  I  don't,  Lizzie.  How  comes 
it  you  didn't  know  yourself?" 

"Fm  sure  I  don't  know;  it  ain't  on 
my  certificate,  anyhow.  Maybe  it's  on 
the  voucher;  but  I  ain't  read  that  since 
I  first  went  to  sign  it.  I  just  go  every 
three  months  and  draw  my  money,  and 
think  no  more  about  it.  Maybe — if  they 
knew  at  Washington — " 

"  Sho !  they  couldn't  make  a  difference 
for  one;  and  it's  just  what  Josh  says — 


The  Immediate  Jewel  29 

they  ain't  goin'  to  pay  you  for  havin'  a 
dead  husband  if  you  got  a  live  one.  Well, 
it  wouldn't  be  sense,  Lizzie." 

Lizzie  shook  her  head.  "Wait  till  I 
look  at  my  paper — 

Mrs.  Butterfield  followed  her  into  the 
house,  and  waited  while  she  lighted  a 
lamp  and  lifted  a  blue  china  vase  off  the 
shelf  above  the  stove.  "  I  keep  it  in 
here,"  Lizzie  said,  shaking  the  paper  out. 
Then,  unfolding  it  on  the  kitchen  table, 
the  two  women,  the  lamplight  shining 
upon  their  excited  faces,  read  the  cer 
tificate  together,  aloud,  with  agitated 
voices : 

"BUREAU  OF  PENSIONS 

"It  is  hereby  certified  that  in  con 
formity  with  the  laws  of  the  United 
States — "  and  on  through  to  the  end. 

"It  don't  say  a  word  about  not  mar- 
ryin'  again,"  Lizzie  declared. 

"Well,  all  the  same,  it's  the  law. 
Josh  knows." 

Lizzie  blew  out  the  lamp,  and  they 
went  back  to  the  door-step.  Mrs.  But- 
terfield's  hard  feelings  were  all  gone; 
her  heart  warmed  to  Nathaniel;  warm 
ed  even  to  the  mangy  dog  that  limp 
ed  out  from  the  barn  and  curled  up 
on  Lizzie's  skirt.  But  when  she  went 


30  Harper's  Novelettes 

away,  "  comfortable  in  her  mind,"  as  she 
told  her  husband,  Lizzie  Graham  still 
sat  in  the  dark  under  her  elm,  trying  to 
get  her  wits  together. 

"  I  know  Josh  is  right,"  she  told  her 
self;  "he's  a  careful  talker.  I  can't  do 
it!"  But  she  winced,  and  drew  in  her 
breath;  poor  Nathaniel! 

She  had  seen  him  that  afternoon,  and 
had  told  him,  this  time  with  no  embar 
rassment  (for  he  was  as  simple  as  a  child 
about  it),  that  she  had  arranged  with 
Mr.  Niles  to  marry  them.  "An'  you 
fetch  your  bag  along,  Nathaniel,  and 
we'll  put  the  machine  together,  evenin's," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  kind  woman,"  he  answered,  joy 
ously.  "  Oh,  what  a  weight  you  have 
taken  from  my  soul!" 

His  half -blind  eyes  were  luminous  with 
belief.  Lizzie  had  smiled,  and  shaken 
her  head  slightly,  looking  at  the  battered 
rubbish  in  the  bag — the  little,  tarnished 
mirrors,  one  of  them  cracked;  the  two 
small  lenses,  scratched  and  dim;  the 
handful  of  rusty  cogs  and  wheels.  With 
what  passion  he  had  dreamed  that  he 
would  see  that  which  it  hath  not  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive!  He 
began  to  talk,  eagerly,  of  his  invention; 
but  reasonably,  it  seemed  to  Lizzie.  In- 


The  Immediate  Jewel  31 

deed,  except  for  the  idea  itself,  there 
was  nothing  that  betrayed  the  unbalanced 
mind.  His  gratitude, too, was  sane  enough; 
he  had  been  planning  how  he  could 
be  useful  to  her,  how  he  was  to  do  this 
or  that  sort  of  work  for  her — at  least 
until  his  eyes  gave  out,  he  said,  cheer 
fully.  "But  by  that  time,  kind  woman, 
my  invention  will  be  perfected,  and  you 
shall  have  no  need  to  consider  ways 
and  means." 

Lizzie,  smiling,  had  left  him  to  his 
joy,  and  gone  back  to  sit  under  her  elm 
in  the  twilight,  and  think  soberly  of 
the  economies  which  a  husband — such  a 
husband — would  necessitate. 

And  then  Mrs.  Butterfield  had  come 
panting  up  to  the  gate ;  and  now — 

"I  don't  see  as  I  can  tell  him!"  she 
thought,  desperately.  To  go  and  say  to 
Nathaniel,  all  eager  and  happy  and  full 
of  hope  as  he  was,  "You  must  go  to 
the  Farm," — would  be  like  striking  in 
the  face  some  child  that  is  holding  out 
its  arms  to  you.  Lizzie  twisted  her 
hands  together.  "  I  just  can't !"  But,  of 
course,  she  would  have  to.  That  was 
all  there  was  to  it.  If  she  married 
him,  why,  there  would  be  two  to  go 
to  the  Farm  instead  of  one.  Oh,  why 
wouldn't  they  give  her  her  pension  if 


32  Harper's  Novelettes 

she  married  again!  Her  eyes  smarted 
with  tears;  Nathaniel's  pain  seemed  to 
her  unendurable. 

But  all  the  same,  the  next  morning, 
heavily,  she  set  out  to  tell  him. 

At  Dyer's,  Jonesville  had  gathered  to 
see  the  sight;  and  as  she  came  up  to  the 
porch,  there  were  nudgings  and  whisper 
ings,  and  Hiram  Wells,  bolder  than  the 
rest,  said,  "  Well,  Mis'  Graham,  this  is  a 
fine  day  for  a  weddin'— 

Lizzie  Graham,  without  turning  her 
head,  said,  coldly,  "  There  ain't  goin'  to 
be  no  weddin'."  Then  she  went  on  up 
stairs  to  Nathaniel's  room. 

The  idlers  on  the  porch  looked  at  each 
other  and  guffawed.  "  I  knowed  Sam 
was  foolin'  us,"  somebody  said. 

But  Sam  defended  himself.  "I  tell 
you  I  wa'n't  foolin'.  You  ask  Rev.  Niles ; 
she  told  me  only  yesterday  he  said  he'd 
tie  the  knot.  I  ain't  foolin'.  She's 
changed  her  mind,  that's  all." 

"Lookin'  for  a  handsomer  man,"  Hi 
ram  suggested; — "chance  for  yourself, 
Sam !" 

Lizzie,  hot-cheeked,  heard  the  laugh 
ter,  and  went  on  up-stairs.  Nathaniel 
was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  his 
hat  on,  his  poor  coat  buttoned  to  his 
chin;  he  was  holding  his  precious  bag, 


The  Immediate  Jewel  33 

gripped  in  two  nervous  hands,  on  his 
knoe.  When  he  heard  her  step,  he  drew 
a  deep  breath. 

"Oh,  kind  woman!"  he  said;  "  I'd  be 
gun  to  fear  you  were  not  coming." 

"  I  am— a  little  late,"  Lizzie  said.  "  I 
— I  was  detained." 

"It  does  not  matter,"  he  said,  cheer 
fully  ;  "  I  have  had  much  food  for 
thought  while  awaiting  you.  I  have  been 
thinking  that  this  wonderful  invention 
will  be  really  your  gift  to  humanity,  not 
mine.  Had  I  gone  to  the  Farm,  it  would 
never  have  been.  Now — !"  His  voice 
broke  for  joy. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  'bout  that," 
Lizzie  said,  nervously ;  "  I  guess  you 
could  'a'  done  it  anywheres." 

"  No,  no ;  it  would  have  been  impos 
sible.  And  think,  Lizzie  Graham,  what 
it  will  mean  to  the  sorrowful  world! 
See,"  he  explained,  solemnly ;  "  we  poor 
creatures  have  not  been  able  to  conceive 
that  of  which  we  have  had  no  experience ; 
the  unborn  child  cannot  know  the  mean 
ing  of  life.  If  the  babe  in  the  womb 
questioned,  What  is  birth?  what  is 
living?  could  even  its  own  mother  tell 
it?  Nay!  So  we,  questioning:  i  God, 
what  is  death?  what  is  immortality?'  Not 
even  God  can  tell  us.  The  unborn  soul, 


34  Harper's  Novelettes 

carried  in  the  womb  of  Time,  has  waited 
death  to  know  the  things  of  Eternity, 
just  as  the  unborn  babe  waits  birth  to 
know  the  things  of  life.  But  now,  now, 
is  coming  to  the  world  the  gift  of  sight !" 

There  was  a  pause;  Lizzie  Graham 
swallowed  once,  and  set  her  lips;  then 
she  said,  "I  am  afraid,  Nathaniel,  that 
I — I  can't  marry  you — because — " 

"  Marry  me  ?"  he  said,  with  a  confused 
look. 

"We  were  to  get  married  to-day,  you 
know,  Nathaniel?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  but— but  I  can't,  Nathaniel." 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said.  "  Shall  we 
go  now,  kind  woman  ?"  He  rose,  smiling, 
and  stretched  out  one  groping  hand.  In 
voluntarily  she  took  it;  then  stood  still, 
and  tried  to  speak.  He  turned  patiently 
towards  her.  "  Must  we  wait  longer  ?" 
he  asked,  gently. 

a  Oh,  Nathaniel,  I— I  don't  know  what 
to  say,  but — " 

A  startled  look  came  into  his  face. 
"  Is  anything  the  matter  ?" 

"Oh!"  Lizzie  said.  "It  just  breaks 
my  heart!" 

His  face  turned  suddenly  gray;  he  sat 
down,  trembling;  the  contents  of  his  bag 
rattled,  and  something  snapped — perhaps 


The  Immediate  Jewel  35 

another  mirror  broke.  He  put  one  hand 
up  to  his  head. 

"  It's  that  pension,"  Lizzie  said,  broken 
ly;  "if  I  get  married,  I  lose  it.  An'  we 
wouldn't  have  a  cent  to  live  on.  You — 
you  see  how  it  is,  Nathaniel?" 

He  began  to  whisper  to  himself,  not 
listening  to  her.  There  was  a  long 
pause,  broken  by  his  strange  whispering. 

Lizzie  Graham  looked  at  him,  and 
turned  her  eyes  away,  wincing  with  pain ; 
— the  tears  were  rolling  slowly  down  his 
cheeks.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoul 
der  in  a  passion  of  pity;  then,  suddenly, 
fiercely,  she  gathered  the  poor  bowed 
head  against  her  soft  breast.  "I  don't 
care!  My  name  ain't  worth  as  much  as 
that!  Let  'em  talk.  Nathaniel,  are  you 
willin'  not  to  get  married?" 

But  she  had  to  speak  twice  before  he 
heard  her.  Then  he  said,  looking  up  at 
her  out  of  his  despair:  "What?  What 
did  you  say?" 

"Nathaniel,"  she  explained,  kneeling 
beside  him  and  holding  his  hand  against 
her  bosom,  "  if  you  were  to  come  and  live 
with  me,  and  we  were  not  married — " 

But  he  was  not  listening.  A  door 
opened  down-stairs,  and  there  was  a  noisy 
burst  of  laughter;  then  it  closed,  and  the 
hot  room  was  still. 


36  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Emily  Butterfield  will  stand  my 
friend,"  she  said,  her  lips  tightening. 
Then,  gently:  "We  won't  get  married, 
Nathaniel.  You  will  just  come  and  visit 
me  until — until  the  machine  is  finished." 

"  You  will  let  me  come  ?"  he  said,  with 
a  gasp;  "you  will  let  me  finish  my  in 
vention?"  He  got  up,  trembling,  clutch 
ing  his  bag,  and  holding  out  one  hand 
to  clasp  hers. 

Lizzie  Graham  took  it,  and  stood  stock- 
still  for  one  hard  moment.  .  .  . 

Then  she  led  him  down-stairs,  out  upon 
the  porch,  past  the  loafers  gaping  and 
nudging  each  other. 

"Goin'  to  be  married,  after  all,  Mis' 
Graham?"  some  one  said. 

And  Lizzie  Graham  turned  and  faced 
them.  "  No,"  she  said,  calmly. 

Then  they  went  out  into  the  sun 
shine  together. 


44  And  Angels  Came — " 

BY  ANNE  O'HAQAN 

THE  full  effulgence  of  cloudless  mid 
summer  enveloped  the  place.  The 
lawns,  bright  and  soft,  sloped  for 
half  a  mile  to  the  sweetbrier  hedge. 
Among  them  wound  the  drive,  now  and 
again  crossing  the  stone  bridges  of/  the 
small,  curving  lake  which  gave  the  estate 
its  affected  name — Lakeholm.  To  the  left 
of  the  house  a  coppice  of  bronze  beeches 
shone  with  dark  lustre;  clumps  of  rhodo 
dendrons  enlivened  the  green  with  splash 
es  of  color.  Lombardy  poplars,  with  their 
gibbetlike  erectness,  bordered  the  roads 
and  intersected  them  with  mathematical 
shadows;  here  and  there  rose  a  feathery 
elm  or  a  maple  of  wide-branched  beauty. 
To  the  right,  a  shallow  fall  of  terraces 
led  to  the  Italian  garden,  Mrs.  Dinsmore's 
chief  pride,  now  a  glory  of  matched  and 
patterned  color  and  a  dazzle  of  spray 
from  marble  basins.  Beyond  all  the  care 
ful,  exotic  beauty  of  the  place,  the  wide 


38  Harper's  Novelettes 

valley  dipped  away,  alternate  meadow 
and  grove,  until  it  met  the  silvery  shiv 
er  of  willows  marking  the  course  of  the 
river.  Beyond  that  again,  the  hills,  sol 
emn  in  unbroken  green,  rose  to  cloud- 
touched  heights. 

Before  the  house  Brockton's  new  auto 
mobile  waited.  He  himself  leaned  against 
a  stone  pillar  of  the  piazza,  facing  his 
hostess,  who  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair 
in  the  tense  attitude  of  protest  against 
delay.  She  had  scarcely  recovered  from 
her  waking  crossness  yet,  arid  found  her 
self  more  irritated  than  amused  at  the 
eccentricities  of  her  guest.  She  was  won 
dering  with  unusual  asperity  why  a  man 
with  such  lack-lustre  blue  eyes  dared  to 
wear  a  tie  of  such  brilliant  contrast.  He 
interrupted  her  musings. 

"Miss  Harned  seems  mighty  stand 
offish  these  days." 

"  Millicent  is  a  little  difficult,"  admitted 
Millicent's  cousin. 

"What  do  you  suppose  it  is?  She 
seemed  all  smooth  enough  in  New  York 
last  winter,  and  even  in  the  spring  aft 
er —  But  now — "  He  paused  again  with 
out  finishing  his  sentence.  "  And  I  had 
counted  on  your  influence  to  make  her 
more  approachable." 

"  Oh,   Millicent   is   having   a   struggle 


"  And  Angels  Came — "          39 

\vith  her  better  nature,  that  is  all,"  laugh 
ed  Mrs.  Dinsrnore.  "  It's  hard  living  with 
her  during  the  process,  but  she's  adorable 
once  her  noble  impulses  have  been  van 
quished  and  she's  comfortably  like  the 
rest  of  the  world  again." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
the  downright  Mr.  Brockton. 

"  No  ?"  Mrs.  Dinsmore  was  sure  that 
the  impertinence  of  her  monosyllable 
would  be  lost  upon  her  elderly  protege. 
"  I'll  make  it  clear  to  you,  if  I  can.  Mil- 
licent,  you  know,  has  nothing — " 

"With  that  figure  and  that  face?" 
interrupted  Brockton,  with  gallant  en 
thusiasm. 

"  I  was  speaking  in  your  terms,  Mr. 
Brockton,"  said  the  lady,  with  suave  hau 
teur.  "  Of  course  all  of  us  count  my 
cousin's  charm  and  accomplishments, 
though  we  do  not  inventory  them  as  pos 
sessions  far  above  rubies.  But  in  the 
valuation  of  the  'change  she  has  nothing. 
Oh,  she  may  manage  to  extract  five  or  six 
hundred  a  year  from  some  investments 
of  my  uncle,  and  she  has  the  old  Harned 
place  in  New  Hampshire.  That  might 
bring  in  as  much  as  seven  hundred  dol 
lars  if  the  abandoned  farm-fever  were 
still  on — " 

"By  ginger!"  boasted  Brockton,  whose 


40  Harper's  Novelettes 

expletives  lacked  ton,  "  it's  more  than 
I  had  when  I  started." 

"  So  I  remember  your  saying  before. 
But  I  fear  that  my  cousin  is  not  a  finan 
cial  genius.  What  I  meant  by  her  strug 
gles  with  her  better  nature  is  that  she 
sometimes  tries  to  thwart  us  when  we 
want  to  make  things  easy  for  her.  Her 
better  nature  had  a  fearful  tussle  with 
her  common  sense  about  five  years  ago, 
when  Aunt  Jessie  asked  her  to  go  abroad ; 
and  it  nearly  overcame  her  frivolity  and 
her  vanity  last  winter  when  I  met  her  at 
the  dock  and  insisted  upon  having  her 
spend  the  winter  with  me,  and  our  second 
cousin,  Alicia  Broome,  offered  to  be  re 
sponsible  for  her  wardrobe.  But,  thanks 
be,"  she  added,  laughing,  "  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil  won.  So  cheer  up, 
Mr.  Brockton.  It  may  happen  again." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  hopeless  by  any  manner 
of  means.  I  want  her  pretty  badly,  and 
I'm  used  to  getting  what  I  want.  I  told 
her,  out  and  out,  when  she  turned  me 
down,  back  there  in  May,  that  if  she 
were  a  young  girl  I  wouldn't  urge  her  any 
more,  after  what  she  said  about  her  feel 
ings.  But  she  wasn't,  and  I  thought  she 
could  look  at  a  proposition  from  a  plain 
business  point  of  view." 

"You  told  her  that?     You  mentioned 


44  And  Angels  Came — "          41 

to  her  that  she  was  no  longer  a  young 
girl?"  Mrs.  Dinsmore's  laugh  rippled 
delightedly  on  the  air. 

"  I  did.  Oh,  I'm  used  to  bargaining," 
he  rejoined,  proudly.  "  I  always  could 
make  the  other  fellow  see  what  he'd  lose 
by  refusing  my  offers.  And  I  got  her 
to  take  the  matter  under  consideration. 
I  heard  somewhere  that  she  was  inter 
ested  in  some  philanthropy.  Well,  money 
comes  in  handy  in  charity."  lie  grinned 
broadly  at  Mrs.  Dinsmore. 

At  that  moment  her  protege  was  ex 
tremely  distasteful  to  the  lady.  But  she 
was  a  philosopher  where  marriage  was 
concerned,  and  she  whole-heartedly  hoped 
that  her  cousin  Millicent  would  not  dally 
too  long  with  her  opportunity  and  allow 
the  matrimonial  prize  to  escape.  She  was 
sincerely  fond  of  Millicent,  and  desired  for 
her  the  best  things  in  the  world.  She  some 
times  said  so  with  touching  earnestness. 

"  She  told  me  "—Mr.  Brockton  stumbled 
slightly — "  that  there  wasn't  any  one  else." 

"  There  isn't.  She  has  her  train — she's 
enormously  admired — but  there  is  no  one 
in  whom  she  is  sentimentally  interested. 
And  Aunt  Jessie  says  it  was  so  all  the 
time  they  were  in  Europe." 

"  Wasn't  there  ever  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Brockton,  Millicent  is 


42  Harper's  Novelettes 

twenty-nine,  as  you  reminded  her,  and 
she's  a  normal  woman!  Of  course  there 
have  been  some  ones — her  music-master 
at  fourteen,  I  dare  say,  and  an  actor  at 
sixteen,  and  a  young  curate  at  eighteen — 
oh,  of  course  I'm  jesting.  But  I  sup 
pose  she  was  somewhat  like  other  girls. 
She  was  engaged  at  nineteen — and  he 
must  have  been  quite  twenty-three!  No, 
I  should  dismiss  all  jealousy  of  her  past 
if  I  were  you." 

"Engaged?" 

Mrs.  Dinsmore  wondered  suddenly  if 
she  had  been  wise,  after  all,  to  admit 
that  widely  known  fact. 

"  Oh  yes,  a  bread-and-butter  engage 
ment.  My  uncle  was  notoriously  inade 
quate  in  all  practical  affairs;  he  was  a 
scholar  and  something  of  a  recluse  and 
the  most  charming  gentleman  I  ever  saw, 
but  a  child  in  worldly  matters, — a  child! 
It  ended,  you  see." 

"How  did  it  end?" 

"  Oh,  poor  Will  Hayter  died." 

"Dead  long?" 

"  Five  or  six  years." 

"Well,  I'm  not  afraid  of  dead  men." 
Brockton  laughed  in  relief.  Mrs.  Dins- 
more  did  not  point  out  to  him  from  her 
more  subtle  knowledge  that  constancy  to 
the  unchanging  dead  is  sometimes  easier 


"  And  Angels  Came — "          43 

than  constancy  to  the  variable  living. 
She  was  only  too  glad  to  have  the  in 
evitable  disclosure  made  lightly  and  the 
truth  dismissed  without  frightening  off 
the  desirable  suitor.  "And  certainly 
Miss  Harned  don't  look  as  if,  as  if — " 

"  Any  irremediable  grief  were  gnawing 
at  her  damask  cheek? — " 

"What's  this  about  damask  cheeks?" 
The  question  came  along  with  a  swirl  of 
skirts  from  the  great  hall.  "  Cousin 
Anna,  don't  hate  me  for  keeping  you  so 
long.  Mr.  Brockton,  I  owe  you  a  thou 
sand  apologies." 

Some  of  those  who  admitted  Millicent 
Harned's  charm  declared  that  it  lay  in 
her  voice.  Always  there  sounded  through 
its  music  the  note  of  eagerness,  with  eager- 
ness's  underlying  hint  of  pathos.  Her 
tones  were  like  her  face,  her  motions,  her 
self.  Impulse,  merriment,  yearning,  and 
the  shadow  of  melancholy  dwelt  in  her 
eyes  and  shaped  her  lips  to  sensitive 
curves.  She  was  tall,  and  her  motions 
were  of  a  spontaneous  grace,  swifter  and 
more  changeful  than  most  women's. 

"You  have  been  a  disgracefully  long 
time,  Millicent,"  her  cousin  answered  her 
apology.  "  But " — she  looked  at  the  beau 
tifully  gowned  figure,  the  lovely,  imagina 
tive  face,  thereby,  like  a  good  showman, 


44  Harper's  Novelettes 

calling  Mr.  Brockton's  attention  to  them 
— "  we'll  forgive  you." 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  primping  that  kept  me. 
I  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  school 
room  door.  Poor  Lena!  She  seemed  to 
be  feeling  the  responsibilities  of  erudition 
terribly  this  morning.  She  showed  me 
her  botany  slides  with  such  an  air!  Do 
you  know  what  genus  has  the  rostel- 
lum,  Anna?" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Anna,  shortly. 
"  And  Lena's  growing  up  a  perfect  young 
prig.  I'll  have  to  change  governesses. 
Heaven  knows  what  I'll  draw  next  time! 
The  last  one  had  charm,  but  no  learning, 
and  mighty  little  intelligence.  This  one 
has  no  manner  at  all,  and  is  of  ency 
clopaedic  information.  A  daughter's  a 
terrible  responsibility." 

"  Isn't  she  ?"  Millicent's  tone  was  one 
of  affectionate  raillery  as  she  gathered  her 
draperies  about  her  in  the  automobile. 
The  notion  of  Anna's  responsibilities 
amused  her;  Anna  was  so  untouched  by 
them — as  smooth-skinned,  as  slim  and 
vivacious,  as  the  forty-year-old  mother  of 
two  boys  entering  college,  a  girl  in  the 
schoolroom  and  another  in  the  nursery, 
as  she  had  been  as  a  debutante. 

"  Oh,  you  may  make  fun,"  said  Anna, 
snapping  open  the  frothy  thing  she  called 


44  And  Angels  Came — "          45 

a  sunshade,  "but  you  don't  know  how  I 
lie  awake  nights,  shuddering  lest  Lena 
grow  up  a  near-sighted  girl  with  no  color 
and  serious  views." 

Millicent  only  smiled  as  the  great 
machine  moved  off.  The  sunshine,  the 
rare  and  ordered  beauty  of  the  place,  the 
fragrance  of  the  soft  winds,  all  lapped 
her  in  indolence.  As  they  neared  the  gate 
that  gave  upon  the  open  road,  a  turn 
brought  them  in  sight  of  the  front  of 
the  house.  It  was  very  beautiful.  She 
breathed  deeply  in  the  content  of  the 
sight — the  delicate  lines,  the  soft  color, 
the  perfection  of  detail.  In  the  gardens 
were  stained,  mellow  columns  and  balus 
trades  which  Anna  had  brought  from  the 
dismantled  palace  in  the  Italian  hills 
where  she  had  found  them.  Everywhere 
wealth  made  its  subtlest,  most  delicate 
appeal  to  her  eyes. 

"  My  house,"  thought  Millicent,  as  they 
shot  out  of  the  grounds,  "  shall  be  differ 
ent,  but  as  beautiful.  The  Tudor  style, 
I  think,  and  for  my  out-of-door  glory 
a  vast  rose-garden, — acres,  if  I  please!" 
Then  she  called  sternly  to  her  straying 
imagination.  She  was  picturing  what 
she  might  have  as  the  wife  of  the  man 
before  her — the  man  whose  first  proposal 
she  had  unhesitatingly  refused,  whose  ap- 


46  Harper's  Novelettes 

pearance  at  Lakeholm  she  had  regarded 
as  proof  of  disloyalty  on  Anna's  part — the 
man  who  at  the  best  represented  to  her 
only  the  artistic  possibilities  of  riches. 
She  dismissed  her  reverie  with  a  frown 
and  joined  in  the  talk. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  confessed,  "  I  for 
get  where  it  is  that  we  are  going?" 

"  We're  coming  back  to  the  Monroes' 
for  luncheon,"  Mrs.  Dinsmore  reminded 
her.  "But  Mr.  Brockton  is  going  to 
skim  over  most  of  the  Berkshires  first. 
I  think  you  said  you  hadn't  been  in  this 
part  of  the  country  before,  Mr.  Brockton  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Brockton,  "  I  haven't  had 
much  chance  to  get  acquainted  with 
the  playgrounds  of  the  country.  I've  been 
too  busy  earning  a  holiday.  But  I've 
earned  it  all  right."  He  turned  to  em 
phasize  his  boast  with  a  nod  toward  Mil- 
licent.  She  blushed.  His  very  chauffeur 
must  redden  at  his  braggart  air,  she 
thought.  The  Tudor  castle  grew  dim  in 
her  vision. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  bubble, 
Miss  Harned  ?"  he  went  on.  "  Goes  like 
a  bird,  don't  she?" 

"  Indeed  she  does,"  answered  Milli- 
cent,  characteristically  making  immediate 
atonement  in  voice  and  look  for  the  men 
tal  criticism  of  the  moment  before.  "  It's 


44  And  Angels  Came—"          47 

really  going  like  a  bird.  I  don't  suppose 
we  shall  ever  have  a  sensation  more 
like  flying." 

"  Not  until  our  celestial  pinions  are 
adjusted,"  said  Anna.  Brockton  laughed, 
but  Millicent  went  on : 

"  Seriously,  the  loveliest  belief  I  ever 
lost  was  the  one  in  the  wings  with  which 
my  virtues  should  be  at  last  rewarded. 
To  breast  the  ether  among  the  whirling 
stars, — didn't  you  ever  lie  awake  and 
think  of  the  possibility  of  that,  Anna  ?" 

"  Never !  I'm  no  poet  in  a  state  of 
suffocation,  as  I  sometimes  suspect  you 
of  being." 

"  As  for  heaven,"  declared  Brockton, 
"  I  don't  take  much  stock  in  all  that. 
We're  here — we  know  that — and  we'd  bet 
ter  make  the  most  of  it.  For  all  we  know, 
it's  our  last  chance  to  have  a  good  time. 
Better  take  all  that's  coming  to  you  here 
and  now,  Miss  Harned,  and  not  count 
much  on  those  wings  of  yours." 

Millicent  smiled  mechanically.  Could 
any  Elizabethan  garden  of  delight  com 
pensate  for  the  misery  of  having  each 
butterfly  of  fancy  crushed  between  Lem 
uel  Brockton's  big  hands  in  this  fashion? 

They  were  entering  a  village.  Before 
them  was  the  triangular  green  with  the 
soldier's  monument  upon  it.  About  it 


48  Harper's  Novelettes 

were  the  post-office,  the  stores,  the  small 
neat  houses  of  the  place.  A  white  church, 
tall-steepled,  green-shuttered,  rose  behind 
the  monument,  and  with  it  dominated 
the  square.  A  wagon  or  two  toiled  lazily 
along  the  road;  before  the  stores  a  few 
dusty  buggies  were  tied.  The  place 
seemed  drowsy  to  stagnation  in  the 
summer  heat.  Why,  Millicent  wonder 
ed,  were  towns  so  crude  and  unlovely  in 
the  midst  of  a  country  so  beautiful  ? 

There  was  a  sudden  explosive  sound, 
and,  with  a  crunch  and  a  jerk  which  al 
most  threw  them  from  their  seats,  the 
machine  came  to  a  standstill.  Brockton 
and  his  chauffeur  were  out  in  an  instant, 
the  one  peering  beneath,  the  other  ex 
amining  more  closely.  He  emerged  in  a 
moment,  and  there  was  a  jargon  of  ex 
planation,  unintelligible  to  the  two  wom 
en.  All  that  Anna  and  Millicent  un 
derstood  was  that  the  accident  was  not 
serious;  that  they  would  be  delayed  only 
a  few  minutes,  and  that  Brockton  was 
very  angry  with  some  one  for  the  mishap. 
The  two  men  worked  together.  Anna 
looked  at  her  cousin. 

"  I'm  dead  sleepy,"  she  half  whispered. 
"  The  wind  in  my  face  and  the  sun  are 
too  soporific  for  me.  Let  us  not  say  a 
word  to  each  other." 


44  And  Angels  Came — "          49 

"You  read  last  night,"  Millicent  ac< 
cused  her.  "  But  I  don't  feel  particularly 
conversational  myself." 

She  leaned  back  and  surveyed  the 
scene  again.  She  could  read  the  words 
graved  on  the  granite  block  beneath  the 
bronze  soldier: 

"  To  the  men  of  Warren  who  fought 
that  their  country  might  be  whole  and 
their  fellows  free  this  tribute  of  love 
is  erected." 

And  there  followed  the  honor-roll  of 
Warren's  fallen. 

Millicent's  sensitive  lips  quivered  a  lit 
tle.  Her  ready  imagination  pictured 
them  coming  to  this  very  square,  perhaps, 
— the  men  of  Warren.  Boys  from  the  hill 
farms,  men  from  the  village  shops,  the 
blacksmith  who  had  worked  in  the  light  of 
yonder  old  forge,  the  carpenter  who  was 
father  to  the  one  now  leisurely  hammer 
ing  a  yellow  L  upon  that  weather-stained 
house, — she  saw  them  all.  What  had  led 
them?  What  call  had  sounded  in  their 
ears  that  they  should  leave  their  plough 
shares  in  the  furrows,  their  tills,  their 
anvils,  and  their  benches?  What  better 
thing  had  stirred  with  the  primeval  in 
stinct  for  fight,  with  the  unquenchable, 
restless  longing  for  adventure,  to  send 
them  forth?  She  read  the  words  again — 


50  Harper's  Novelettes 

"that  their  country  might  be  whole  and 
their  fellows  free." 

She  moved  impatiently.  For  now  an 
old  shadowy  theory  of  hers — an  inherit 
ance  from  the  theories  of  the  recluse,  her 
father  —  stirred  from  a  long  -  drugged 
quiet:  a  theory  that  there  was  a  disin 
tegrating  unpatriotism  in  the  untouched, 
charmed  life  of  riches  she  and  her  fellows 
sought.  She  felt  the  disturbing  convic 
tion  that  those  common  men — she  could 
almost  hear  their  blundering  speech,  see 
their  uncouth  yawns  at  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  beauty  on  which  she  fed  her 
soul — that  those  men  had  wells  of  life 
within  them  purer,  sweeter,  than  she. 
She  averted  her  eyes  from  the  monument. 

"  Honey !"  called  a  voice,  full-throated 
and  loving — "  honey,  where  are  you  ?" 

There  was  a  play-tent  on  the  little 
patch  of  yard  before  the  brown  cottage 
to  the  left.  The  voice  had  come  from 
the  narrow  piazza.  Millicent  shivered  as 
she  looked  at  it,  with  its  gingerbread 
decorations  already  succumbing  to  the 
strain  of  the  seasons.  The  answer  came 
from  the  tent: 

"  Here  I  am,  muwer.  Did  you  want 
me?" 

She  came  out — a  child  of  five  or  six 
years.  The  round -eyed  solemnity  of 


"  And  Angels  Came — "  S1 

babyhood  had  not  left  her  yet.  She 
brought  her  small  doll  family  with  her, 
and  a  benevolent  collie  ambled  beside  her. 
Her  mother  watched,  tenderness  beauti 
fying  her  brown  eyes:  she  was  a  young 
woman,  no  older  than  Millicent,  but  her 
face  was  more  lined  than  Anna's;  a  strand 
of  dark  hair  was  blown  across  her  cheek; 
there  were  fruit  stains  on  her  apron.  All 
the  marks  of  a  busy  household  life  were 
about  her,  all  the  bounteous  restfulness 
of  a  woman  well  beloved,  and  the  anxieties 
of  a  loving  woman.  She  gave  the  auto 
mobile  a  passing  glance,  but  it  had  no 
interest  for  her.  Her  eyes  came  back 
to  caress  the  young  thing  which  toiled 
up  the  steps  to  her,  babbling  of  a  morn 
ing's  events  in  the  tent. 

"Yes,  sweetheart,  that  was  very  nice," 
she  said,  in  answer  to  some  breathless 
demand  for  sympathy.  "  And  mother  has 
brought  you  the  bread  and  jam  she  prom 
ised  you  this  morning.  Will  you  eat  it 
here,  or  in  the  tent?" 

"  Couldn't  I  come  into  the  kitchen  to 
eat  it,  where  you  are?" 

"  Why,  yes,  honey,  if  you  want  to." 

The  door  closed  upon  the  vision  of 
intimate  love.  Millicent  saw  Lena  walk 
ing  sedately  with  the  governess  of  no 
charm  and  encyclopedic  information. 


52  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Now  we're  all  right,"  called  Brockton, 
loudly.  "  Upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Dinsniore, 
I  think  you  were  asleep!  Miss  Harned, 
you  can't  be  as  entertaining  as  I  thought 
if  your  cousin  falls  asleep  with  you." 

"But  think  how  soothing  I  must  be; 
that's  even  better  than  to  be  entertaining." 

"  By  ginger !  I  never  found  that  out — • 
that  you  were  soothing,  I  mean."  It  was 
evident  that  Mr.  Brockton  intended  a 
compliment.  Anna  Dinsmore  saw  the 
annoyed  red  whip  out  upon  Millicent's 
cheeks.  She  interposed  a  few  ready,  ir 
relevant  questions  before  the  tide  of 
Brockton's  flattery. 

They  made  their  swift  way  through  the 
hills,  sometimes  overlooking  the  winding 
course  of  the  river,  sometimes  skirting 
the  great  estates  of  the  region,  again 
whizzing  noisily  through  an  old  village. 
Anna  and  Brockton  sustained  the  weight 
of  conversation.  Millicent  smiled  in 
vague  sympathy  with  their  laughter  and 
joined  at  random  in  the  talk.  Obstinate 
ly  her  mind  had  stayed  behind  her — with 
the  men  of  Warren,  with  the  round-faced 
child,  and  the  woman  to  whose  life  love 
and  not  art  gave  all  its  beauty. 

They  approached  one  of  the  larger  old 
towns  of  the  country — a  place  with  a 
bustling  main  street  and  elm -shaded 


"  And     Angels  Came—  53 

thoroughfares  branching  from  it.  Here 
were  ample,  well-kept  lawns  and  houses 
of  prosperous  dignity.  It  seemed  charm 
ing  to  Millicent  with  its  air  of  unhurried 
activity  or  undrowsy  repose. 

"What  is  this,  Anna?"  she  asked. 

Anna  told  her. 

"  Riverfield  ?"  Millicent  repeated  the 
name,  but  in  a  strange  voice.  Anna 
stared  a  little. 

"  Yes.  Why  ?  Do  you  know  any  one 
here?" 

"  No."  The  word  trickled  slowly,  un 
willingly,  from  Millicent. 

"  Lovely  town,  and  there  are  some  good 
places  outside,"  said  Anna.  "  The  Os- 
tranders  have  one,  and  Jimson,  the  artist. 
But  the  native  city,  or  whatever  you  call 
it,  is  adorable.  It  has  that  air  of  re 
warded  virtue  which  makes  one  ashamed 
of  one's  life—" 

"  I  wish  " — Millicent  still  spoke  remote 
ly,  as  if  out  of  a  sleep — "  I  wish,  Mr. 
Brockton,  that  we  might  find  a  little 
library  and  museum  they  have  here." 

"Why,  of  course!" 

"  Are  you  going  to  compare  it  with  the 
Vatican,  Millicent?"  asked  Anna,  flip 
pantly.  Millicent  turned  a  distant,  starry 
gaze  upon  her  cousin. 

"  No,"  she  said ;  and  then,  in  a  flash  of 


54  Harper's  Novelettes 

sympathy  and  fright,  Anna  remembered 
that  it  had  been  for  some  little  Berkshire 
town  that  Will  Hayter  had  built  a  library 
and  museum  just  before  his  death,  six 
years  before — the  town  from  which  his 
family  had  originally  come.  Her  memory 
worked  rapidly,  constructing  the  story. 
The  blood  dyed  her  face  at  the  thought 
of  her  obtuseness.  Then  she  set  her  lips 
firmly.  She  had  done  her  best ;  if  a  wan 
ton  fate  chose  to  interfere  now  and  make 
Millicent  slave  to  the  phantom  of  her 
early,  radiant  love,  she,  Anna,  could  do 
no  more! 

"Here  we  are,  I  guess,"  called  Brock 
ton.  The  machine  shot  into  a  broad 
street.  A  promenade  between  a  double 
row  of  elms  down  its  centre  gave  it  a 
spacious  dignity.  The  modest  court 
house  stood  on  one  side,  as  green-bo wered 
as  if  Justice  were  a  smiling  goddess;  a 
few  churches  broke  the  stretch  of  houses. 
And  on  the  other  side  the  library  and 
museum  stood. 

"Pretty  little  building,  but  plain," 
commented  Brockton,  making  disparaging 
note  of  its  graceful  severity. 

"It's  exactly  suited  to  the  place;  it 
epitomizes  its  spirit,"  said  Anna,  glibly. 
"  It's  austere  without  being  forbidding — a 
perfect  Colonial  adaptation  of  the  Greek." 


"  And  Angels  Came — "  55 

Millicent  made  no  architectural  ob- 
eervation.  Instead  she  said :  "  If  you 
don't  mind,  I  should  like  to  go  in  for 
a  while.  You  could  pick  me  up  later, 
perhaps  on  your  way  back  to —  Where  is 
it  we  are  lunching  ?" 

Consternation  looked  out  of  Anna's 
eyes,  bewilderment  out  of  Brockton's. 
But  Millicent  turned  to  them  with  such 
gentle  command  in  her  gaze  that  they 
could  offer  no  protest. 

"  Come  back  in  half  an  hour,  if  you  are 
ready,"  she  said.  Upon  Anna,  whose 
baffled  look  followed  her  up  the  flagging 
between  the  close-dipt  lawns,  there  came 
the  feeling  that  she  was  leaving  her 
cousin  alone  with  the  beloved  dead. 

"  Now  what — "  began  Brockton,  in  full- 
toned  protest, — "  what  the — " 

"  That  was  the  last  thing  Will  Hayter 
did,"  —  Anna  interrupted  his  question. 
"And  the  first,  so  to  speak.  It  was  a 
fairly  important  commission.  Jessup,  the 
Trya  Drop  liniment  man,  came  from 
Riverfield — he  has  a  mammoth  place  out 
side  now.  When  he  began  to  coin  money 
faster  than  the  mint,  he  gave  lots  of 
things  to  his  birthplace — which  has  al 
ways  blushed  for  him.  It's  prouder  that 
Whittier  once  spent  Sunday  with  one  of 
its  citizens  than  that  Alonzo  Jessup  is  its 


56  Harper's  Novelettes 

son.  Well,  he  gave  the  library  and  mu 
seum,  and  the  commission  went  to  Will 
Hayter.  The  Hayters  came  from  here 
two  or  three  generations  ago.  It  was 
just  before  his  death,  and  Millicent  has 
been  abroad  almost  ever  since.  So  she 
had  never  seen  it." 

Brockton  gave  a  look  of  speechless 
chagrin  at  his  hostess,  which  she  an 
swered  haughtily : 

"My  dear  Mr.  Brockton,  after  all, 
I  never  undertook  to  be  a  marriage- 
broker  !"  Then  she  glanced  at  the  chauf 
feur  and  forbore. 

Meantime  Millicent  sat  in  one  of  the 
square  exhibition-halls.  The  sweet  air, 
with  the  scent  of  hay  from  the  farther 
country  faintly  impregnating  it,  blew 
through  the  quiet.  No  one  else  shared 
the  room  with  her.  The  even  light 
soothed  her  eyes,  the  stillness  calmed  the 
fluttering  apprehension  in  her  breast 
which  had  presaged  she  knew  not  what 
fresh  anguish  of  loss.  There  were  pic 
tures  on  the  walls — one  or  two  not  despi 
cable  originals  which  Trya  Drop  Jessup 
had  given,  many  copies,  and  a  few  speci 
mens  of  Riverfield's  native  talent.  But 
she  saw  none  of  them,  any  more  than  one 
sees  the  windows  and  the  paintings  in  a 
great  cathedral  in  the  first  fulness  of 


"And  Angels  Came— "          57 

reverence.  To  her  this  was  a  sacred  place. 
That  grief  had  lost  its  poignancy,  that 
youth  and  health  with  cruel  insistence 
had  reasserted  their  sway  over  her  life, 
did  not  mean  forgetfulness,  unfaith. 

"Truly,  truly,"— she  almost  breathed 
the  words  aloud, — "  there  has  been  no 
other  one.  That  was  my  love,  young  as 
we  were.  But  I  must  fill  up  the  days — I 
must  fill  up  the  days." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  unseeingly  upon 
a  great  canvas  at  the  other  end  of  the 
hall.  Some  Riverfield  hand  had  por 
trayed  a  Riverfield  imagination's  concep 
tion  of  the  moment  in  the  life  of  Christ 
when,  the  temptations  of  Satan  with 
stood,  angels  came  to  Him  upon  the 
mountain.  In  the  lower  distance  the 
kingdoms  of  the  world  grew  dim  beneath 
the  shadow  that  fell  from  the  vanquished 
and  retreating  tempter,  and  from  the 
opening  heavens  a  dazzling  cloud  of 
angels  streamed  toward  the  solitary  Fig 
ure  on  the  height.  By  and  by  Millicent's 
eyes  took  note  of  it.  She  half  smiled. 
There  was  daring  at  least ! 

Then  the  picture  faded,  and  again  the 
persistent  figure  of  the  child  which  had 
so  filled  her  imagination  came  before  her. 
But  this  time  it  was  toward  herself  that 


58  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  rosy  face  was  turned  and  limpid  eyes 
lifted  in  unquestioning  dependence.  She 
was  the  mother;  she  stood  on  the  piazza, 
and  by  her  side  he  stood,  who  had  been 
so  dear  in  himself,  so  infinitely  dearer 
in  the  thought  of  all  that  should  be;  to 
ward  them  the  child  came;  they  were 
enveloped  by  breathless  love  for  each 
other  and  for  that  being,  innocent,  trust 
ing,  which  their  love  had  called  into  life. 
So,  dimly,  she  had  dreamed  in  the  radiant 
days  of  old.  Almost  she  could  feel  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  hear  his  voice 
full  of  tenderness  that  expressed  itself 
only  in  tone,  not  in  word,  taking  refuge 
from  too  great  feeling  in  jest.  She  closed 
her  eyes  against  the  vision  that  made 
her  faint  with  anguish. 

Some  one  entered  the  room  with  a 
brisk  little  trot;  Millicent  opened  her 
eyes  and  turned  her  head.  A  small  wom 
an,  "  old  maid  "  from  the  top  of  her  neat 
gray  head  to  the  toe  of  her  list  shoes, 
came  forward.  She  held  a  pad  and  pen 
cil  and  wore  the  badge  of  authority  in 
her  manner.  At  sight  of  Millicent  she 
paused,  blinking  behind  her  glasses.  Mil 
licent  came  slowly  out  of  her  trance; 
recognition  dawned  upon  her.  She  rose. 

"Miss  Hayter  — Aunt  Harriet!"  she 
cried,  advancing. 


44  And  Angels  Came— "  59 

"It  is  you,  then!"  chirped  the  elder 
lady.  "  My  dear,  who  could  have  ex 
pected  this?" 

"  Not  I,  for  one!"  She  held  both  Miss 
Hayter's  hands.  "  I  had  no  idea  you  were 
here.  Surely  you  haven't  given  up  your 
beloved  Boston  school?" 

"  Oh  no.  Only  in  the  summer  I  come 
here  for  a  month  and  substitute  for  the 
regular  curator  while  she  is  on  her 
vacation.  It  "  —  she  struggled  against 
a  constitutional  distaste  for  self-revela 
tion — "it  seems  like  a  little  visit  with 
Will,  somehow." 

Millicent's  throat  throbbed  with  a 
strangled  sob.  No  one  had  spoken  his 
name  in  so  long !  Her  people  had  had  no 
interest  but  to  banish  the  memory  of  him 
from  her  heart;  this  quaint  little  aunt 
of  his,  who  had  adored  him  and  lived  for 
him,  was  the  first  who  had  spoken  of 
him  in — she  did  not  know  how  many 
years.  She  held  tight  to  the  old  hands, 
her  eyes  clung  to  the  withering  face. 
"  Say  it  again,"  she  whispered ;  "  say 
his  name." 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  cried  the  older  wom 
an,  "is  it  still  as  hard  as  this?  Come, 
sit  down  here  with  me.  Of  course  I  knew 
that  you  were  not  one  of  the  changing 
kind," — Millicent  winced, — "  but  I'm  sor- 


60  Harper's  Novelettes 

ry  to  think  you  should  suffer  now  as 
keenly  as  you  do." 

"It  is  not  just  that,"  said  Millicent, 
shamefacedly.  "  Only,  seeing  you  unex 
pectedly  gave  me  a  pang.  And  then, 
being  in  the  place  he  built — " 

The  older  woman  patted  her  hand 
soothingly.  "  I  understand,"  she  said. 
"  I've  always  understood.  When — when 
you  didn't  write  after  the  very  first,  I 
knew  it  was  because  you  couldn't,  not  be 
cause  you  forgot.  You  were  really  made 
for  each  other,  you  two.  I  think  I  never 
saw  two  such  radiant,  happy  creatures  in 
the  world.  Ah,  well!"  she  wiped  a  sud 
den  dew  from  her  glasses,  "waiting's 
hard,  my  dear,  but  it  ends, — it  ends." 

Millicent  was  hurt  by  the  unbroken 
faith  in  her,  by  the  unquestioning  belief 
she  could  not  share.  She  looked  wistfully 
upon  the  shining,  tearful  eyes. 

"It  is  very  beautiful  to  think  that," 
she  said,  "but,  dear  Aunt  Harriet,  you 
are  mistaken  about  me.  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  everything.  I — I  loved  your 
nephew.  I  shall  not  love  any  one  else. 
It  happened  to  come  to  me  in  perfectness 
when  I  was  young — love.  But  I  live, 
I  am  well,  I  am  alive  to  pleasure  and  pain. 
How  shall  I  fill  up  my  life  but  with  the 
things  that  still  matter  to  me  ?" 


"  And  Angels  Came — "          6 1 

"  You  think  of  marrying,  you  mean  ?" 
Aunt  Harriet's  voice  was  dry  and  harsh. 
"  Well — I  am  sure  Will  would  wish  your 
happiness,  and  I — it  would  not  be  for  me 
to  object.  Every  day  it  is  done,  and  very 
often  rightly,  I  suppose;  for  money,  for 
companionship,  for  the  chance  of  self- 
development,  women  marry  without  love. 
I — I  could  only  wish  you  happiness." 

"  You — do  not  understand." 

"  My  dear," — her  voice  softened  again ; 
something  in  the  pallor  and  the  quiver 
ing  pain  of  the  girl  touched  her, — "  I  do 
not  mean  to  speak  hardly  to  you.  It 
seems  to  me  like  this:  when  it  comes  to 
piecing  out  a  life  that  has  been  broken, 
as  yours  was — as  mine  was,  my  dear,  as 
mine  was — there  are  two  ways  of  doing  it. 
Either  you  keep  your  ideal  of  perfect 
love,  and  lead  your  poor  every-day  life 
of  odds  and  ends,  like  mine,  filling  your 
days  with  the  best  scraps  of  pleasure  or 
usefulness  you  may,  or  you  give  up  your 
ideal  of  perfect  love  and  marry,  and  have 
your  home  and  your  children  and  your 
rounded  outward  life.  There  is,  maybe, 
no  question  of  higher  or  lower.  Each 
one  of  us  does  what  her  nature  bids  her. 
I  had  always  thought  of  you  as  one  who — 
But  it  is  not  for  me  to  judge." 

Her  voice  was  gentle,  and  she  did  not 


62  Harper's  Novelettes 

look  at  Millicent.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
pierce  the  canvas  on  the  opposite  wall  and 
the  hangings  and  the  stones  behind  it,  and 
to  see  a  far  image  of  souls  in  the  struggle 
of  choice.  The  woman  beside  her  sat 
silent,  her  thoughts  with  the  idealists — 
the  men  who  gave  up  the  comfort  of  their 
firesides,  the  gain  of  their  occupations, 
and  followed  whither  the  vision  led;  the 
woman  whose  home  was  built  upon  love 
and  who  would  see  only  infamy  in  houses 
founded  otherwise;  the  poor  soul  beside 
her,  stronger  in  courage,  more  aspiring 
in  thought,  than  she,  with  all  her  deli 
cacies,  her  refinements  of  taste.  The  ideal 
had  led  them  all — the  ideal,  as  it  had 
once  shone  for  her  and  for  him  whose 
spirit  had  informed  and  beautified  the 
spot  where  she  sat  and  made  her  choice. 

"  Aunt  Harriet,"  she  said,  and  her  face 
was  like  the  sudden  flashing  of  stars  be 
tween  torn  clouds, — "Aunt  Harriet — " 
She  could  not  utter  the  decision  in  words. 
"  May  I  come  to  see  you — and  learn 
something  from  you  ?" 

Miss  Hayter  looked.  There  was  no 
need  to  question.  No  knight  ever  rose 
from  his  accolade  with  a  face  more  glori 
fied  than  Millicent's  when  she  silently 
dedicated  herself  to  the  shining  company 
of  those  who  keep  unsullied  the  early  vision. 


44  And  Angels  Came — "          63 

As  she  passed  out  of  the  hall,  her  eyes 
fell  again  upon  the  painting  of  the 
Temptation.  She  read  the  black  and 
gilt  legend  below  it — "  And  Angels  Came 
and  Ministered  Unto  Him."  Then  she 
laughed  down  upon  the  old-fashioned  fig 
ure  trotting  by  her  side.  "  And  angels 
came,"  she  said. 

Her  rapt  look  frightened  Anna  when 
the  automobile  returned  for  her.  Then 
the  heart  of  that  frivolous  woman  was 
stricken  for  a  moment  with  wistfulness. 

"  You  seem  very  happy,"  she  faltered, 
"and — amused,  is  it?  What  are  you 
smiling  over?" 

"  I  am  still  thinking  of  angels.  Would 
you  ever  have  dreamed,  Anna,  that  they 
sometimes  wore  list  shoes,  and  sometimes 
ate  bread  and  jam,  and  occasionally  spoko 
with  granite  lips?  They  do." 

Brockton  stirred  uneasily,  foreboding 
failure.  And  Anna  sighed,  mourning 
two  lost  visions. 


Keepers  of   a  Charge 

BY    GRACE    ELLERY    CHANNING 

THE  Doctor's  brougham  stood  at  the 
door;  the  Doctor's  liveried  servants 
waited  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs; 
the  Doctor  himself  in  his  study  was 
gathering1  together  his  paraphernalia  for 
the  day,  and  the  Doctor's  face  was  a  study. 
He  was  tired;  he  was  cross;  he  was 
feeling  ill.  His  nervous  hands  were  un 
steady;  his  movements  were  by  jerks; 
his  face  was  a  knitted  tangle  of  lines. 
He  had  rheumatism  in  both  shoulders, 
and  a  headache,  and  a  pain  in  his  chest. 
He  had  slept  but  little,  and  one  of  his 
patients  had  had  the  happy  idea  of 
despatching  a  messenger  for  him  in  the 
dead  hour  of  the  night.  The  Doctor 
never  went  out  nights,  and  she  ought 
to  have  known  this,  but  her  only  son  was 
ill  and  she  was  persuaded  he  could  not 
survive  a  dozen  hours  together  without 
the  Doctor's  personal  attendance. 

It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  any  of  his 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  65 

patients  that  his  own  life  was  of  the 
smallest  consequence  in  the  balance  with 
theirs  or  that  of  any  member  of  their 
families.  Occasionally,  when  his  rheu 
matism  was  exceptionally  severe  or  his 
cough  racking,  this  reflection  embittered 
the  Doctor.  At  other  times — and  this 
was  generally — he  accepted  with  phi 
losophy  this  integral  selfishness  of  clients 
as  a  part  of  their  inevitable  constitution. 
They  were  a  set  of  people  necessarily 
immersed  and  absorbed  in  their  own 
woes,  or  in  that  extension  of  their  woes 
which  was  still  more  passionately  their 
own,  and  even  more  unmercifully  insist 
ed  upon  in  proportion  to  the  decent 
veneer  of  altruism  it  possessed. 

Without  being  strictly  a  handsome 
man,  the  Doctor  produced  the  effect  of 
one.  Nothing  gives  distinction  like 
character,  and  this  he  had  and  to  spare. 
He  was  not  a  popular  physician,  but  a 
famous  one ;  the  day  was  long  past  when 
his  professional  success  depended  upon 
anything  so  personal  as  appearance  or 
manner.  He  could  afford  to  be — and 
he  frequently  was — as  disagreeable  as 
he  felt;  desperate  sufferers  could  not  af 
ford  to  resent  it,  and  their  relatives,  in 
the  grim  struggle  for  a  precious  life, 
swallowed  without  a  protest  the  brusque- 


66  Harper's  Novelettes 

ries  and  rebuffs  of  the  man  who  held  in 
the  hollow  of  his  potent  hand  their  jewel 
of  existence. 

He  had  his  passionate  detractors  and 
his  personal  devotees,  and  these  last 
afflicted  him  far  more  than  the  first. 
Like  the  priest,  the  physician  cannot  es 
cape  taking  on  superhuman  proportions 
in  the  eyes  of  those  to  whom  he  has 
rendered  back  life,  their  own  or  a  dearer, 
and  the  Doctor  (having  long  outlived 
the  time  when  it  flattered  him)  was  often 
exasperated  to  the  limits  of  endurance 
by  the  blind  faith  which  asked  miracles 
of  him  as  simply  as  cups  of  tea.  The 
strain  these  women — they  were  mostly 
women,  of  course — put  upon  him  was 
beyond  belief,  and  he  got  but  a  mild 
pleasure  out  of  the  reflection  that,  being 
in  their  nature  foolish,  they  could  not 
help  it. 

It  was  quite  in  keeping,  therefore,  that 
one  of  them  should  have  broken  up  his 
night's  sleep.  He  knew  those  attacks  of 
the  boy's  by  heart;  there  was  exactly  one 
chance  in  one  hundred  that  his  presence 
should  be  necessary.  He  had  sent  a  safe 
remedy,  telephoned  a  severe  but  soothing 
message,  and  mentally  prayed  now  for 
patience  to  meet  the  irrational,  angered 
eyes  of  maternity,  and  to  administer  a 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  67 

reproof  equally  gentle  and  deterrent — 
gentle,  for  of  course  the  woman's  nerves 
had  to  be  allowed  for;  she  had  been 
nursing  this  boy  for  months.  The  Doctor 
slipped  into  his  long,  fur-trimmed  over 
coat  and  reached  for  his  tall  hat. 

"You  may  as  well  send  those  Sym 
phony  tickets  to  somebody,"  he  said,  im 
patiently,  to  his  wife;  "I  sha'n't  be 
able  to  go.  Ten  to  one  I  shall  be  late 
to  dinner,  and  I  doubt  if  I  got  home 
to  lunch  at  all." 

His  wife,  who  was  patiently  holding 
his  gloves  and  cigar-case,  looked  at  him 
with  a  sweet  maternal  anxiety  as  he  tum 
bled  together  the  papers  on  the  table, 
but  she  only  said,  "Very  well."  As  he 
turned  to  take  the  gloves  and  cigar-case, 
she  added,  quickly,  with  a  second  anx 
ious  glance: 

"  Do  try  to  get  a  few  minutes'  rest 
somewhere.  Any  of  our  friends  will  be 
so  glad  to  give  you  a  cup  of  tea — or  a 
little  music — and  it  always  rests  you  so." 

The  Doctor  took  the  things  from  her 
hands ;  he  looked  abstractedly  at  his  wife, 
then  stooped  hurriedly  and  kissed  her. 

"Don't  worry  about  me;  I  shall  be 
all  right,"  he  said,  as  he  hastened  from 
the  room.  It  was  characteristic  of  him 
that  he  forgot  his  clinical  thermometer, 


68  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  was  never  known  to  have  a  prescrip 
tion-pad  or  pencil. 

One  servant  opened  the  house  door  for 
him,  and  another  the  carriage  door;  the 
Doctor  stepped  in  quickly,  growling  out 
a  direction  and  ignoring  the  bows  of  his 
retainers.  He  kept  his  own  for  the  bene 
fit  of  his  clients,  he  was  wont  cynically 
to  say.  He  settled  himself  in  the  seat, 
and  before  the  door  was  fairly  closed 
had  lighted  a  cigar  and  unfurled  a 
medical  journal. 

As  the  carriage  whirled  recklessly  down 
the  street  and  around  corners,  several 
feminine  patients  looked  longingly  after, 
as  if  virtue  went  out  from  it,  and  several 
masculine  ones  raised  their  hats,  but  the 
Doctor,  his  eyes  glued  to  the  paper,  saw 
none  of  them. 

Perhaps  his  most  restful  moments  were 
these  spent  in  his  brougham.  It  was 
almost  his  only  time  for  reading;  he  had 
found,  moreover,  that  this  served  to  keep 
his  mind  fresh  from  case  to  case,  de 
taching  it  from  one  train  of  thought 
and  bringing  it  with  new  concentration 
to  the  next.  These  brief  intervals  be 
longed  wholly  to  himself.  His  home  was 
never  safe  from  invasion,  and  little  time 
and  less  strength  remained  to  him  for 
domestic  joys. 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  69 

Life  had  not  brought  to  him  all  that 
he  was  conscious  might  have  been  with 
in  its  gift.  Professionally,  indeed,  he 
had  reached  great  heights,  but  these  only 
enabled  a  measure  of  the  territory  be 
yond,  and  if  to  his  patients  he  appeared 
as  a  species  of  demigod,  to  himself  he 
was  merely  a  "  lucky "  physician — his 
peculiar  luck  consisting  in  that  sixth 
sense  which  put  him  so  easily  into  his 
patients'  skins  and  pierced  through  ob 
scure  maladies  to  possible  sources.  How 
he  knew  a  great  many  things  puzzled 
them,  but  puzzled  him.  still  more.  Sim 
ply  at  certain  crises  he  was  aware  that 
mysteries  were  momentarily  revealed  to 
him.  Back  of  that  he  possessed,  of  course, 
the  usual  outfit  of  medical  knowledge, 
open  to  any  one,  but  which  had  never 
yet  made  a  great  physician  since  the 
world  with  all  its  aches  and  pains  began. 
For  that  other  things  were  needed:  a 
coloring  of  the  artistic  temperament,  a 
dash  of  the  gambler's,  a  touch  of  femi 
ninity,  as  well  as  the  solid  stratum  of 
cool  common  sense  at  the  bottom  of  all; 
these  eked  out  the  modicum  of  scientific 
knowledge  which  is  all  mankind  has  yet 
wrested  from  secretive  nature.  The 
Doctor  sometimes  described  himself  as 
a  "good  guesser."  Surgery  might  be  an 


70  Harper's  Novelettes 

exact  science;  few  things  in  medicine 
were  exact,  and  what  was  never  exact 
was  the  material  upon  which  medicine 
must  work.  The  great  bulk  of  his  fra 
ternity  went  through  their  studious,  con 
scientious,  hard-working,  and  not  infre 
quently  heroic  lives  under  the  contented 
conviction  of  having  to  deal  with  two 
principal  facts — disease  and  medicine — 
both  accessible  through  study.  To  them 
the  imponderable  factor  of  the  patient 
represented  such  or  such  an  aggregation 
of  material — muscle,  nerve,  blood,  brawn, 
bone,  and  tissue — which  might  be  count 
ed  upon  to  respond  to  such  and  such  a 
treatment  in  such  and  such  a  manner, 
with  very  slight  variation.  The  Doctor 
envied  them  their  simplicity  of  faith. 
To  him,  on  the  contrary,  the  patient  was 
a  factor  which  could  not  be  counted  on 
at  all — a  force  about  which  he  knew 
virtually  nothing,  acting  upon  a  mechan 
ism  about  which  he  knew  little  more, 
and  capable  of  interactions,  reactions, 
and  counteractions  innumerable,  revers 
ing  and  nullifying  all  past  experience 
at  a  moment's  notice — an  unforeseen  mo 
ment  always. 

He  eyed  this  mystery,  accordingly, 
with  respect,  lying  in  wait  for  hints 
from  it,  and  frequently  reversing  in  his 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  71 

turn  patiently  prepared  plans  of  action, 
with  a  prompt  speed  impossible  to  a  less 
supple  mind, — impossible  at  all,  quite 
often,  to  any  process  of  conscious 
thought.  To  have  these  intuitions — that 
was  his  touch  of  femininity;  to  risk 
largely  upon  them  was  the  gambler  in 
him;  his  swift  appropriation  of  the  sub 
ject's  temperament  betrayed  the  artist 
in  his  own ;  while  the  hard  common  sense 
which  drew  the  rein  on  all  these  was  a 
legitimate  inheritance  —  both  national 
and  personal.  So  was  his  manner — not 
often  extremely  courteous  and  quite 
often  extremely  rude.  In  this  latter  case 
his  adorers  called  it  "  abstracted,"  while 
his  enemies  qualified  it  as  "  ill-bred." 
But  his  voice,  ordinarily  abrupt  and 
harsh,  could  pass  to  exquisite  intonations 
in  the  sick-room,  and  there  were  mo 
ments  when  to  anxious  watchers  therein 
the  man  seemed  more  than  a  man. 

The  affinity  between  physician  and 
artist  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and 
suggestive.  Every  one  will  recall  the 
famous  surgeon-etcher,  and  the  distin 
guished  specialist  in  nerves  and  novels. 
The  Doctor's  artistic  passion  was  for 
music.  Unfortunately,  it  was  not  mate 
rially  portable,  like  a  writing-pad,  and 
there  would  have  been  something  un- 


72  Harper's  Novelettes 

seemly  in  the  spectacle  of  a  physician 
fiddling  in  his  carriage,  so  he  nursed 
this  love  in  seclusion.  His  violin  was  his 
one  indulgence,  and  when  he  permitted 
himself  to  dream,  it  was  of  a  life  with 
music  in  it.  Sometimes  he  wished  his 
wife  were  musical;  more  often  he  con 
gratulated  himself  that  she  was  not. 
He  was  sincerely  attached  to  her,  owing 
— and,  what  was  more  significant,  reali 
zing  that  he  owed — her  much  besides  the 
promising  twins;  most  of  all,  perhaps, 
that  she  consented  to  be  his  wife  on  his 
own  terms.  But  she  was  distinctly  not 
musical. 

The  Doctor  laid  down  his  paper  and 
took  up  his  mail,  and  a  disagreeable  ex 
pression  came  into  his  face.  It  was 
one  of  the  pleasant  features  of  his  pro 
fessional  career  that  his  brother  physi 
cians  occasionally  vented  their  jealousy 
of  him  upon  one  of  their  joint  patients — 
stabbing  him,  so  to  speak,  through  their 
lungs  or  heart,  wherein  he  was  most 
vulnerable.  Just  as  he  expected!  They 
had  deliberately  neglected  his  prescrip 
tions,  after  calling  him  a  winter-journey 
north  to  deliver  them,  and  as  deliberately 
allowed  the  victim  to  die  according  to 
their  treatment  rather  than  permit  him 
to  live  according  to  the  Doctor's. 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  73 

The  look  upon  his  face  was  ugly  to 
behold;  he  flung1  open  the  door  with  un 
necessary  violence  before  the  carriage 
had  stopped,  and  his  foot  was  on  the 
pavement  before  the  footman  could 
descend.  Then  he  braced  his  rheumatic 
shoulders  for  the  four  steep  flights  of 
stairs;  he  could  not  justly  complain  of 
the  number,  since  he  himself  had  sent 
the  patient  there  to  be  high  and  dry  and 
quiet.  On  the  way  up  he  had  one  of 
his  nameless  seizures  of  intuition,  and 
in  the  dark  upper  hall  his  hand  fell 
sharply  away  from  the  knocker  and  his 
face  set  whitely.  There  had  been  just 
one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  his  pres 
ence  was  necessary;  before  the  door 
opened  he  knew  this  had  been  the  hun 
dredth  chance. 

The  ghastly  woman's  face  which  met 
him  added  nothing  to  that  certitude,  yet 
he  winced  before  it  in  every  nerve. 

"You  have  come  too  late,"  she  ar 
ticulated  only. 

"No!"  thundered  the  Doctor.  He  put 
her  aside  like  a  piece  of  furniture  and 
strode  into  the  darkened  room  beyond. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  later  when 
he  emerged.  The  woman  stood  exactly 
where  he  had  left  her.  It  was  another, 
tall  and  young,  who  turned  from  the 


74  Harper's  Novelettes 

window  and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that 
hurt.  But  he  did  not  wince  this  time. 

"It's  all  right!"  he  said,  cheerfully. 
His  voice  quite  sang  with  sweetness.  He 
came  and  stood  a  moment  by  the  window, 
breathing  hard.  His  face  was  gray,  but 
his  eyes  smiled,  and  there  was  something 
boyish  in  his  aspect.  He  looked  from 
one  woman  to  the  other  sunnily. 

"  Bless  me — you  ought  never  to  let 
yourselves  go  like  that!  He'll  pull 
through  all  right," 

The  younger  woman  continued  to  look 
at  him  silently,  but  the  elder,  with  a  long 
quivering  sigh,  fainted. 

"  Best  thing  she  could  possibly  do," 
said  the  Doctor,  his  fingers  on  her 
pulse.  "  Get  her  to  bed  as  soon  as 
you  can, — and  have  these  prescriptions 
sent  out.  I'll  come  back  later.  He'll 
sleep  hours  now." 

He  ran  down-stairs,  consulting  his 
visiting-list  as  he  ran,  and  jumped  into 
the  brougham,  calling  an  address  as  he 
pulled  the  door  to  with  a  slam.  Thia 
time,  however,  he  did  not  take  out  his 
papers,  but  sat  with  an  unlighted  ci 
gar  between  his  lips,  gazing  intently 
at  nothing. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  hours 
he  looked  over  an  assortment  of  ailing 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  75 

babies,  soothed  as  many  distracted  moth 
ers,  ordered  to  a  gay  watering-place  one 
young  girl  whom  he  was  obliged  to  treat 
for  chronic  headache — chronic  heartache 
not  being  professionally  recognizable, — 
administered  the  pathetically  limited  al 
leviations  of  his  art  to  a  failing  cancer- 
patient  (she  happened  to  be  a  rich  wom 
an,  going  with  the  fortitude  of  the  poor 
down  the  road  to  the  great  Darkness), 
and  so,  looking  in  on  various  pneu 
monias  and  fevers,  broken  souls  and 
bruised  bodies,  by  the  way,  brought  up 
at  last  at  the  hospital  to  see  how  yester 
day's  operation  was  going  on.  It  was 
going  on  in  so  very  mixed  a  manner 
that  he  telephoned  he  should  not  re 
turn  to  lunch — prophesying  long  after 
the  event. 

It  was  turning  dusk  when  he  started 
on  his  second  round  of  visits  homeward, 
stopping  on  the  outskirts  to  rebandage, 
in  one  of  the  tenements,  a  child's  broken 
arm.  He  had  not  returned  his  footman's 
salutation  that  morning,  but  had  carried 
in  his  subconsciousness  all  day  this  visit 
to  the  footman's  child.  In  one  manner 
or  another  that  inconvenient  locality 
had  been  compassed  in  his  circuit  for 
the  past  three  weeks.  From  it  he  passed 
to  his  daily  ordeal,  another  rich  patient, 


7  6  Harper's  Novelettes 

a  nervous  wreck,  whose  primary  ailment 
— the  lack  of  anything  to  do — had  passed 
into  the  advanced  stages  of  an  inability 
to  do  anything,  with  its  sad  Nemesis  of 
melancholia — the  registered  protest  of 
the  dying  soul.  It  was  a  case  which  took 
more  out  of  the  Doctor  than  all  his 
day's  practice  put  together;  he  always 
came  from  it  in  a  misery  of  doubts. 

The  dusk  was  becoming  the  dark  when 
he  set  his  foot  wearily  on  the  carriage 
step  once  more,  and  with  his  hand  on 
the  carriage  door  paused  suddenly.  He 
was  sick  of  sickness,  mortally  tired  of 
mortality!  For  the  first  time  in  the 
whole  day  he  hesitated ;  an  odd,  irresolute 
leok  came  into  his  face;  he  pulled  out 
his  watch,  glanced,  and  changing  his 
first -given  address  for  another,  threw 
himself  back  on  the  cushions  with  closed 
eyes.  He  did  not  open  them  again  until 
the  carriage,  rolling  through  many  streets, 
came  to  a  halt  under  some  quiet  trees, 
before  an  apartment-house.  There  were 
yellow  daffodils  between  white  curtains — 
very  white  and  high  up.  As  he  stepped 
out,  the  Doctor  glanced  involuntarily  to 
wards  them,  and  a  half -breath  of  relief 
escaped  him,  instantly  quenched  in  a 
nervous  frown  and  jump  as  his  arm  was 
seized  by  a  firm  gloved  hand. 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  77 

"Doctor, — this  is  really  providential! 
You  are  the  very  person  I  wished  to  see  I" 

It  was  the  younger  of  two  heavily  up 
holstered  and  matronly  ladies  who  spoke, 
in  a  voice  of  many  underscoring.  The 
Doctor,  who  had  removed  his  hat  with  a 
purely  mechanical  motion,  knew  himself 
a  prey,  identified  his  captor,  and  eyed 
her  with  restrained  bitterness. 

"Doctor, — it  is  about  my  Elsie; — she 
hasn't  a  particle  of  color,  and  she  com 
plains  of  feeling  languid  all  the  time — 

"No  wonder!— What  do  you  expect?" 
— it  was  the  Doctor's  harshest  tone. 
"  She  is  loaded  up  with  flesh, — she  does 
n't  exercise, — you  stuff  her.  Send  her 
out  with  her  hoop, — make  her  drink  wa 
ter, — stop  stuffing  her.  What  she  wants 
is  thinning  out." 

"Elsie!— Why,  Doctor,  the  child  eats 
nothing, — I  have  to  tempt  her  all  the 
time; — and  when  she  goes  out  she  com 
plains  of  feeling  tired." 

"  Let  her  complain, — and  let  her  get 
tired; — it  will  do  her  good.  Don't  feed 
her  in  betweentimes, — and  when  you  do 
feed  her,  give  her  meat — something  that 
will  make  red  blood, — not  slops,  nor 
sweets,  nor  dough.  There's  nothing  in 
the  world  the  matter  with  her."  He  lifted 
his  hat  and  strode  on  up  the  stairs. 

6 


78  Harper's  Novelettes 

Maternity,  grieved  and  outraged,  stared 
after  him,  speechless,  then  turned  for 
sympathy  in  the  nearest  feminine  eye. 

"Really,  dear, — I  think  that  was  al 
most  vulgar, — as  well  as  unkind,"  mur 
mured  the  other  mother  at  her  side. 

"Vulgar!  Unkind!  Well,  it  is  the 
last  time  he  will  have  the  opportunity 
to  insult  me!  The  idea!  Elsie!— But 
it's  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  of 
changing  physicians !"  (This  was  true, — 
but  she  never  did;  the  solid  Elsie  was 
her  only  one.)  "And  such  desperate 
haste; — he  must  have  a  most  critical 
case!"  She  cast  an  indignant  glance  at 
the  building,  as  if  to  make  it  an  acces 
sory  to  the  fact,  and  turning  a  kindling 
and  interrogative  glance  upon  her  com 
panion,  encountered  one  of  profound  and 
scintillating  significance.  For  a  moment 
they  contemplated  their  discovery  breath 
lessly  in  each  other's  eyes. 

"Did  you  ever!"  exclaimed  number 
one  at  last.  "  Oh,  of  course  I  had  heard 
things, — but  I  will  do  myself  the  justice 
to  say  I  never  believed  a  word  of  it  be 
fore!  This,  of  course,  makes  it  plain 
enough; — this  explains  all!" 

The  two — good  women,  but  wounded 
withal — coruscated  subtle  knowledge  all 
down  the  street. 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  79 

Meantime  the  Doctor  climbed  the 
stairs.  He  was  perfectly  conscious  that 
he  had  been,  in  fact,  both  unkind  and 
rude,  even  though  his  mood  did  not 
incline  him  to  take  measure  of  the 
extent  of  his  delinquency.  He  knew 
equally  that  he  should  presently  have  to 
write  a  note  of  apology — and  that  it 
would  not  do  an  atom  of  good.  Taut  pis. 
He  rang  at  the  door  of  the  daffodil-room, 
and  it  was  opened  by  the  tall  girl  whose 
eyes  had  hurt  him  that  morning.  They 
did  not  hurt  him  now,  but  enveloped  him 
with  a  keen  and  soft  regard  that  left 
no  question  unanswered.  In  another 
moment  she  had  put  out  a  firm  hand  and 
drawn  him  over  the  threshold  in  its  clasp. 

"  Don't  speak, — don't  try  to  say  a  word ! 
There!"  She  had  taken  from  him  his 
hat  and  gloves  and  pushed  forward  a  low 
chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  all  in  one 
capable  movement.  "What  is  it?  Tea? 
Coffee?  A  glass  of  wine?" 

"Music!"  answered  the  Doctor,  rais 
ing  two  haggard  eyes,  with  the  exhausted 
air  of  an  animal  taking  shelter. 

The  girl  turned  away  her  own  and 
walked  towards  the  piano,  stopping  on 
the  way,  however,  to  push  forward  a 
little  table  set  forth  with  a  steaming 
tea-urn  and  cups,  matches  and  a  tray, 


8o  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  to  lift  to  its  farther  edge  a  bowl  of 
heavy-scented  violets.  Her  every  motion 
was  full  of  ministry,  as  devoid  of  fuss. 

The  room  was  low,  broad,  and  large, 
and  full  of  books,  flowers,  low  seats,  and 
leaping  firelight.  A  grand-piano,  piled 
with  music,  dominated  the  whole.  The 
girl  seated  herself  before  it  and  began 
to  play,  with  the  beautiful,  powerful 
touch  of  control.  After  the  first  bars, 
the  Doctor's  head  sank  back  upon  the 
cushions  of  the  chair  and  the  Doctor's 
hand  stole  mechanically  to  the  matches. 
He  smoked  and  she  played — quiet,  large 
music,  tranquilly  filling  the  room:  Bach 
fugues,  German  Lieder,  fragments  of 
weird  northern  harmonies,  fragments  of 
Beethoven  and  Schubert,  the  Largo  of 
Handel, — and  all  the  time  she  played 
she  looked  at  the  man  who  lay  back  in 
the  chair,  half  turned  from  her,  the 
cigar  drooping  from  his  fingers.  There 
was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  music 
and  light  leaping  of  little  flames  in  the 
fireplace, — no  motion  but  theirs  and  the 
pulsing  fingers  on  the  keys.  The  girl 
played  on  and  on,  till  the  fire  began  to 
die,  and  with  a  sudden  sigh  the  Doctor 
held  up  his  hand.  Then  she  rose  at  once, 
and  going  forward,  stood  as  simply  at 
the  side  of  the  fireplace  opposite  him. 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  81 

She  was  not  beautiful,  but,  oh,  she  was 
beautiful  with  health  and  calm  vigor. 

The  Doctor  let  his  eyes  rest  on  her. 

"If  you  knew,"  he  said,  with  a  little, 
half-apologetic  laugh. 

In  her  turn  she  held  up  one  of  her 
long  hands. 

"  But  I  do ; — you  forget  I  was  there 
all  the  morning.  And  you  pulled  him 
through.  As  for  the  rest — "  She 
stooped  suddenly  and  began  to  pile  to 
gether  the  logs;  the  Doctor  watched  her, 
noting  with  a  trained  and  sensitive  eye 
the  muscular  ease  and  grace  of  the  sup 
ple  arms  and  shoulders  —  like  music. 
"  Of  course  " — she  spoke  lightly — "  they 
will  kill  you  some  day,  among  them; 
but — it's  worth  while,  isn't  it? — and 
there  isn't  much  else  that  is,  is  there?" 
Still  kneeling,  she  turned  and  looked 
straight  up  at  him.  "  Do  you  know 
what  it  was  like  this  morning — before 
you  came?" 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  smiling  a 
little.  "  '  Lord,  if  Thou  hadst  been  here, 
our  brother  had  not  died !' "  she  quoted. 

The  Doctor  got  up  quickly  from  his 
chair.  He  knocked  the  ash  from  his 
cigar  and  laid  it  down  on  the  tray. 
"Well,"  he  said,  lightly,  "I  must  be 


82  Harper's  Novelettes 

off."  He  squared  his  shoulders  and  held 
out  his  hand;  its  grip  upon  her  own 
trembled  very  slightly,  but  he  smiled 
sunnily.  "  I'll  come  back  for  some  more 
music  some  day." 

"Do,"  the  girl  said.  She  had  risen 
and  was  smiling  too. 

The  Doctor  looked  about  the  room 
wistfully.  "  Jolly  place, — I  don't  get  up 
very  often,  do  I?" 

"  Not  very." 

They  smiled  at  each  other  again,  then 
the  girl,  turning  abruptly  away,  walked 
to  the  window  and  came  back  with  a 
double  handful  of  yellow  flowers. 

"  Will  you  carry  these  to  your  wife  ? 
They  are  the  first  of  the  year."  . 

She  held  the  door  open  for  him,  and 
from  the  little  landing  watched  him 
down  the  stairs.  At  their  turn  he 
glanced  up  for  a  moment,  holding  his 
hat  raised  silently.  She  waved  him  a 
mute  acknowledgment,  then  going  into 
the  room  again,  closed  the  door. 

The  firelight  still  leaped  languidly  on 
the  hearth,  and  on  the  half -smoked  cigar 
and  pile  of  ashes  in  the  tray.  The  girt 
stood  a  moment  looking  at  these  things 
and  the  chair,  then  walked  quietly  to  the 
piano  and  sat  down  before  it.  But  she 
did  not  play  again. 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  83 

Meantime  the  Doctor,  an  erect  and 
urgent  presence  in  the  dusk,  had  driven 
through  dim  streets  and  climbed  again 
the  four  flights  of  the  morning,  to  find 
the  hush  of  heaven  fallen  on  the  house. 

"I  knew  you  could  save  him!"  said 
the  pale  mother  only,  lifting  blind  eyes 
of  worship  from  the  couch. 

The  Doctor  laughed,  poured  her  out 
with  his  own  hands  a  sleeping-draught, 
and  sat  patiently  beside  her  till  she  slept, 
then  stole  away,  leaving  injunctions  with 
the  nurse,  established  in  his  absence, 
to  telephone  if  there  came  a  crisis — 
"  even,"  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"  in  the  night." 

"  Home !" — he  gave  the  order  briefly. 
There  were  black  circles  beneath  his 
eyes,  making  him  look  thinner  than  when 
he  left  the  house  that  morning;  he  had 
no  distinct  reminiscence  of  lunch,  and 
he  was  very  tired;  but  his  shoulders  no 
longer  ached,  his  headache  was  gone,  and 
his  hands  were  perfectly  steady. 

Odd  bits  of  music  hummed  perversely 
through  his  head,  mixing  themselves  up 
with  all  things  and  rippling  the  air 
about  him  into  their  own  large  waves, 
bearing  now  and  then  upon  them,  like 
the  insistent  iteration  of  an  oratorio 
chorus,  fantastic  fragments — "If  Thou 


84  Harper's  Novelettes 

hadst  been  here! — If  Thou  hadst  been 
here!"  His  fingers  ached  towards  the 
responsive  strings,  and  pulling  out  his 
watch,  he  made  a  hasty  calculation. 
There  should  be  good  fifteen  minutes,  he 
decided — toilet  allowed  for — and  he  hur 
ried  the  coachman  again  and  leaned  for 
ward,  looking  with  bright,  eager  eyes  into 
the  night,  and  humming  to  himself. 

One  liveried  servant  opened  the  house 
door,  another  the  carriage  door,  and  a 
third  relieved  him  of  his  hat  and  coat. 
Out  of  the  warmth  and  brightness  his 
wife  advanced  to  meet  him,  a  child  in 
either  hand,  their  long  curls  brushed  and 
tied  with  bright  ribbons.  Her  face  was 
filled  with  tender  solicitude. 

"  You  must  be  worn  out ; — what  a  long 
day  you  have  made!  Would  you  like 
the  dinner  sent  in  at  once,  or  would  you 
rather  wait?  Children,  don't  hang  so 
on  papa;  he  must  be  dreadfully  tired. 
Oh,  and  there's  a  man  been  waiting  over 
an  hour;  he  simply  wouldn't  go;  but 
you'll  let  him  come  back  to-morrow? — 
you  won't  try  to  see  any  one  else  to 
night?" 

The  Doctor  hesitated  a  moment,  let 
ting  all  the  warmth  and  brightness  sink 
into  him,  while  his  hands  played  with 
the  soft  hair  of  his  little  son  and  daugh- 


Keepers  of  a  Charge  85 

ter.  He  smiled  at  his  wife,  a  bright* 
tired  smile. 

"  Robin,"  he  said,  "  run  down  to  the 
carriage;  there  are  some  posies  there  for 
mamma — from  Miss  Graham,  Louise, — 
you  see  I  did  get  a  moment's  rest." 

"Yes,"  said  his  wife.  She  continued 
to  gaze  compassionately  at  the  tired 
man.  After  a  moment  she  repeated 
gently,  "And  the  dinner,  dear — ?" 

"  No, — don't  wait  for  me ;  I'll  not  be 
long.  Have  it  brought  in  at  once,  and — 
send  the  man  into  the  office,  please." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  the  children, 
and  turning  away,  went  into  his  office 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 


A   Working  Basis 

BY   ABBY   MEGUIRE   ROACH 

WHY  she  married  him  her  friends 
wondered  at  the  time.  Those 
she  made  later  wondered  more. 
Before  long  she  caught  herself  wonder 
ing.  Yes,  she  had  seen  it  beforehand, 
more  or  less.  But  she  had  seen  other 
things  as  well :  he  had  developed  uneven 
ly,  unexpectedly,  if  logically.  There  had 
been  common  tastes — which  grew  obso 
lete  or  secondary.  As  the  momentum  of 
what  she  believed  and  hoped  of  him  ran 
down  with  them  both,  he  crystallized  into 
the  man  he  was,  and  no  doubt  virtually 
had  always  been. 

It  was  bad  enough  to  have  to  ask  for 
money,  but  to  have  it  counted  out  to 
you,  to  be  questioned  about  it  like  a 
child,  was  worse. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  in  the 
first  months  of  their  marriage.  "  Are  you 
afraid  I  won't  be  judicious,  responsible? 
Mightn't  you  try  before  judging?" 


A  Working  Basis  87 

"Judicious?  Responsible?"  He  pinch 
ed  her  cheek.  (Judith  was  five  feet  nine 
and  sweetly  sober  of  mien.)  "  There  are 
no  feminines  or  diminutives  of  those 
words,  my  dear." 

She  stepped  back.  "But  with  more 
freedom  I  could  manage  better,  Sam." 

"  Manage  ?"— jocularly.  "  That  is  your 
long  suit,  isn't  it?  You  feel  equal  to 
managing  all  of  us?  Could  even  give 
me  pointers  on  the  business,  eh  ?" 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

Sam,  feet  apart,  hands  in  pockets, 
looked  her  over  with  the  smile  one  has 
for  a  dignified  kitten.  "I  won't  trouble 
you,  my  dear.  I  manage  this  family." 
With  his  pleasantries  a  lower  note 
struck — and  jangled. 

"  But  that  isn't  the  point.    I  want — ' 

"  Really  ?  You  always  do.  Don't  bother 
to  tell  me  what.  If  you  got  this  you'd 
be  wanting  something  else,  so  what's  the 
use  of  the  expense  merely  to  change 
the  object?"  He  chuckled  at  her  baf 
fled  silence. 

"  I  can't  answer  when  you're  like  that. 
But— but,  Sam!  It  isn't  fair!"  Still  she 
supposed  that  relevant. 

However,  money  was  not  the  chief 
thing.  He  could  manage.  Let  it  go. 

Having  properly  impressed  her,  nothing 


88  Harper's  Novelettes 

made  Sam  feel  larger  than  to  bring  her 
a  set  of  pearl-handled  knives, — when  she 
had  wanted  a  dollar  for  kitchen  tins. 
His  extravagances  were  not  always  gen 
erosities.  Once,  after  she  had  turned 
her  winter-before-last  suit  and  patched 
new  seats  into  the  boy's  flannel  drawers, 
because  "times  were  hard,"  he  bought  a 
brace  of  blooded  hunting-dogs. 

Next  day  she  opened  an  account  at  a 
department  store. 

With  the  promptness  of  the  first  of  the 
month  and  the  sureness  of  death  the 
bill  came.  Sam  had  expressed  himself 
unchecked  before  she  turned  in  the  door 
way.  "If  you  will  go  over  it,"  she  said, 
with  all  her  rehearsal  unable,  after  all,  to 
imitate  his  nonchalance,  "you  will  find 
nothing  unnecessary.  I  think  there  is 
nothing  there  for  the  dogs." 

But  her  cannon-ball  affected  him  no 
more  than  a  leaf  an  elephant;  he  did  not 
know  he  was  hit.  It  was  always  so. 

In  his  cool  way,  however,  Sam  had  all 
the  cumulative  jealousy  of  the  primitive 
male  for  his  long  primacy.  Some  weeks 
later,  when  Judith  ordered  an  overcoat  for 
Sam  junior  sent  home  on  approval,  she 
found  the  store  had  been  instructed  to 
give  her  no  credit. 

She  got   out,   with   burning  face   and 


A  Working  Basis  89 

heart,  without  the  article.  Her  first  im 
pulse  was  to  shrink  from  a  blow. 

But  at  table  that  night  she  recounted 
her  experience :  "  The  very  courteous  gen 
tleman  who  informed  me  of  your  pre 
dicament  happened  to  be  a  cousin  of  Mr. 
Banks,  of  Head  and  Banks.  (They  sup 
ply  your  grain,  I  believe?)  Mrs.  Howe 
(isn't  it  R.  E.  Howe  who  is  president  of 
the  Newcomb  Club?)  was  at  my  elbow. 
The  salesgirl  has  Sam  junior's  Sunday- 
school  class.  Doubtless  it  will  interest 
them  all  to  know  you  are  in  such  straits 
you  can't  clothe  your  children." 

Ah?  She  had  touched  his  vulnerable 
point?  Instantly  she  was  swept  by  com 
punction,  by  impulses  to  make  amends, 
to  him,  to  their  love.  Their  love!  That 
delicate  wild  thing  she  kept  in  a  warm, 
moist,  sheltered  place,  and  forbore  to 
look  at  for  yellowing  leaves. 

Like  the  battle  of  Blenheim,  it  was  a 
famous  victory,  but  what  good  came  of 
it  at  last?  The  overcoat  came  home,  to 
be  sure,  with  cap  and  shoes  besides.  But 
she  was  too  gallant  to  press  her  advan 
tage.  Besides,  she  still  looked  for  him 
to  take  a  hint. 

He  did,  after  his  own  fashion.  "You 
ought  to  see  Judith  here,"  he  laughed  to 
a  caller,  "  practising  her  kindergarten 


90  Harper's  Novelettes 

methods  on  me."  His  imperturbability 
was  at  once  a  boast  and  a  slight. 

"He  doesn't  mean  it,"  she  apologized, 
later,  protecting  herself  by  defending  him. 
"You  know  how  men  are;  the  best  of 
them  a  bit  stupid  about  some  things. 
They  don't  mean  to  hurt  you.  You  know 
it,  but  you  can't  help  crying." 

"Oh,  I  understand!"  (That  any  one 
should  sympathize  with  her!  It  was  not 
so  much  her  vanity  that  suffered  as  her 
precious  regard  for  him,  her  pride  in 
their  marriage.)  "Nobody  minds  little 
things  like  that  against  such  devotion 
and  constancy.  Why,  he  talks  of  you  all 
the  time,  Judith;  of  your  style,  your 
housekeeping.  You  are  his  pet  boast. 
He  says  you  can  do  more  with  less  than 
anybody  he  ever  saw."  And  then  Ju 
dith  laughed. 

They  were  all  articles  of  the  creed  she 
herself  repeated — and  doubted  more  and 
more.  Faithful  enough.  He  never  came 
or  went  without  the  customary  kiss. 
When  he  had  typhoid  fever,  no  one  might 
be  near  him  but  her,  until  her  exhaustion 
could  no  longer  be  concealed,  when  he 
fretted  about  her — until  he  fretted  him 
self  back  into  high  temperature  and  had 
a  relapse. 

So,  run  down  as  she  was,  she  hid  it,  kept 


A  Working  Basis  91 

up,  went  on  alone,  adding  to  the  score  of 
her  inevitable  day  of  reckoning,  after  the 
old  heroic-criminal  woman-way. 

She  had  begun  with  ideas  of  their 
saving  together  for  a  purpose;  but,  not 
allowed  to  plan,  she  must  use  every 
opportunity  to  provide  against  future 
stricture;  besides,  Sam's  arbitrary  and 
unregulated  spending  made  her  poor  little 
economies  both  futile  and  unfair. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  your  business. 
How  can  I  tell  if  I  spend  too  much?" 

"  Make  your  mind  easy ;  I'll  keep  you 
posted,"  he  laughed.  He  was  not  bother 
ing  about  dangerous  ground. 

"  Doubtless,"— dryly.  "  But  if  I  spend 
too  little?" 

"  Not  you." 

He  did  mean  it !  He  didn't  care !  The 
half-truth  fanned  the  slow  fire  growing 
within  her  into  sudden  flame.  Judith 
turned,  stammering  over  the  dammed 
rush  of  replies. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear !"  he  deprecated, 
amused.  "  How  easily  you  lose  your  tem 
per  lately,  every  time  there  is  a  discus 
sion  of  expenses !  Why  excite  yourself  ?" 
Why,  indeed?  Anger  put  her  at  a  dis 
advantage,  and  making  her  half  wrong, 
half  made  him  right.  "  I  don't  say  I 
particularly  blame  you,  but  you  see  for 


92  Harper's  Novelettes 

yourself  you  don't  keep  your  balance,  and 
it's  mistaken  kindness  to  tempt  any  wom 
an's  natural  feminine  weakness  for  luxury 
and  display." 

The  retorts  were  so  obvious  they  were 
hopeless.  She  stood  looking  at  him. 

His  eyebrows  lifted;  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  went  out,  and  forgot. 

Why  any  of  it,  indeed?  There  was  no 
bridge  of  speech  between  alien  minds. 
Their  life  was  a  continual  game  of  cross- 
questions  and  silly  answers.  Their  na 
tures  were  antipodal;  he  had  the  faults 
that  annoyed  her  most;  his  virtues  were 
those  least  compensating. 

Was  her  dream  of  influencing  the  chil 
dren  a  superstition  too,  then  ? 

The  children!  They  slipped  the  house 
whenever  possible;  avoided  their  father 
with  an  almost  physical  effect  of  dodging 
an  expected  blow;  when  with  him,  watch 
ed  his  mood  to  forestall  with  hasty  atten 
tion  or  divert  with  strained  wit,  with 
timorous  hilarity  when  he  proved  com 
plaisant.  The  possibilities  for  harm  to 
them  were  numberless.  She  and  Sam 
were  losing  the  children,  and  the  children 
were  losing  everything. 

For  years  they  had  been  a  physical  and 
mental  outlet  for  her  nature.  That  love 
had  no  question  of  reciprocity  or  merit. 


A  Working  Basis  93 

She  had  always  been  willing  for  them. 
Only  it  seemed  to  her  all  the  rest  of  love 
should  come  first.  It  occurred  to  her 
ironically  how  happy  her  marriage  would 
have  been  without  her  husband. 

What  was  his  love  worth  ?  It  was  only 
taxation  —  taxation  without  representa 
tion.  Had  either  of  them  any  real  love 
left? 

Suddenly  she  stood  on  the  brink  of 
black  emptiness.  To  live  without  love; 
her  whole  nature,  every  life  -  habit, 
changed!  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  So  the 
cold  water  sets  the  suicide  struggling 
for  shore. 

Dear,  dear!  This  would  not  do.  Her 
nerves  were  getting  the  best  of  her;  she 
was  losing  her  own  dignity  and  sweet 
ness — was  on  the  verge  of  a  breakdown. 

But  to  say  so  would  be  to  invoke  doc 
tors,  pointless  questions,  futile  drugs,  and 
a  period  of  acute  affection  from  Sam — 
affection  that  took  the  form  chiefly  of  ex 
pecting  it  of  her. 

At  times  Judith  thought  of  death  as 
an  escape,  but  she  thought  of  no  other 
as  being  any  more  in  her  own  hands ;  like 
so  many  people,  she  quoted  the  Episcopal 
marriage-service  as  equal  authority  with 
the  Bible.  She  was  too  live  to  droop  and 
break  as  some  do.  She  had  not  made 

7 


94  Harpers  Novelettes 

herself  the  one  armor  that  would  have 
been  effective — her  own  shell.  Friction 
that  does  not  callous,  forms  a  sore.  Her 
love,  her  utmost  self,  ached  like  an  ex 
posed  nerve.  She  had  not  dreamed  one's 
whole  being  could  be  so  alive  to  suffering. 
She  must  be  alone,  to  get  a  hand  on  her 
self  and  things  again. 

At  table  one  night  she  wanted  them  all 
to  know  she  was  going  away,  for  several 
months  perhaps,  leaving  her  cousin  Anne 
in  charge.  It  was  all  arranged. 

The  amazing  innovation  surprised  Sam 
into  speechlessness. 

Judith  had  had  few  vacations.  There 
had  always  been  the  babies,  of  course. 
And  Sam's  consent  had  always  been  so 
hard  to  get.  His  first  impulse  about 
everything  was  to  refuse,  contradict, 
begrudge.  Then  certainly  he  mustn't 
be  too  easily  convinced.  After  that  he 
always  moped  through  her  preparations; 
counted  and  recounted  the  cost,  and  at 
the  last  perhaps  gave  her  a  handsome 
new  bag  when  her  old  one  was  particu 
larly  convenient,  and  he  had  supplied 
only  half  she  had  asked  for  clothes; 
would  hardly  tell  her  good-by  for  deso 
late  devotion;  tracked  her  with  letters 
full  of  loneliness,  ailments,  discomforts. 
When  she  had  cut  short  her  plans  and 


A  Working  Basis  95 

hurried  back,  a  bit  quiet  and  unrespon 
sive  perhaps,  "  How  truly  gracious 
your  unselfishness  is,  my  dear!"  he  ob 
served.  "  If  it  comes  so  hard  to  show  me 
a  little  consideration,  you  would  really 
better  keep  doing  your  own  way." 

"  I  never  do  my  own  way." 

"No?  Whose  then?  I  fail  to  recog 
nize  the  brand." 

"  That's  the  trouble.  I  might  as  well 
stop  trying." 

Now,  she  could  not  delay  for,  nor  en 
dure,  the  conventional  comedy. 

Since  he  asked  her  no  questions,  she 
hastened  to  explain :  "  I  want  to  rest  ab 
solutely.  Not  even  to  write  letters.  You 
need  not  bother  to,  either.  Anne  will  let 
me  know  if  I  am  needed.  And  if  I  need 
anything,  you  will  be  sure  to  hear." 

"  Oh,  sure."     Sam  was  recovering. 

But  he  couldn't  think  she  would  really 
go,  in  that  way  at  least.  He  thought  he 
knew  one  good  reason  why  not.  Yet, 
vaguely  on  guard  against  her  capacity 
for  surprise,  he  did  not  risk  the  satire  of 
asking  her  plans.  To  the  last  Judith 
hoped  he  would  shame  her  a  little  by  of 
fering  the  money;  and  against  his  utter 
disregard  her  indignation  rose  slowly, 
steadily,  deepening,  widening,  drowning 
out  every  other  feeling  for  him. 


96  Harper's  Novelettes 

When,  after  their  final  breakfast,  lie 
kissed  her  good-by  as  for  the  morning 
only,  she  took  her  jewelry  and  silver, 
mementos  of  his  self-indulgence  in  gen 
erosity,  and  pawned  them,  mailing  him 
the  tickets  from  the  station  where  she 
piloted  herself  alone. 

She  spent  a  month  (in  her  rest-cure!), 
writing  and  destroying  letters  to  him. 
There  was  no  alternation  of  moods  now. 
Nor  was  she  seeking  a  solution  of  the 
problem;  there  was  only  one. 

At  last  a  letter  seemed  to  do:  "It 
cannot  hurt  you  to  read,  as  much  as  me 
to  write.  But  it  must  come.  I  can  see 
now  it  has  always  been  coming.  Things 
cannot  go  on  as  they  are.  We  are  un 
able  to  improve  them  together.  I  will 
cast  no  blame.  Perhaps  some  other 
woman  would  have  called  out  a  dif 
ferent  side  of  you,  or  would  have  mind 
ed  things  less.  It  is  enough  that  we 
do  not  belong  together,  because  we  are 
^ve  and  cannot  change.  We  are  not 
only  ruining  each  other's  happiness — 
that  is  already  irrevocable, — we  are  ruin 
ing  each  other,  and  the  children,  and 
their  futures.  It  is  a  question  of  the 
least  wrong.  And  I  am  not  coming  back. 

"  I  want  the  children,  all  of  them.  But 
if  you  insist,  you  take  Sam  junior  and  I 


A  Working  Basis  97 

the  girls — and  the  baby,  of  course,  at 
least  for  the  present.  And  you  shall  pro 
vide  for  us  proportionately.  There  is  no 
use  pretending  independence;  I  have 
given  my  strength  and  all  the  accom 
plishments  I  had  to  you  and  them.  And 
there  is  no  sense  in  the  mock-heroics  that 
I  don't  want  your  money.  It  isn't  your 
money;  it's  ours,  everything  we  have.  1 
have  borne  your  children,  and  saved  and 
kept  house  and  served  and  nursed  for  you 
and  them.  If  you  want  to  divide  equally 
now,  I  will  take  that  as  my  share  for 
ever.  But  we  can't  escape  the  fact  that 
we  have  been  married  and  have  the 
children." 

She  could  get  an  answer  in  two  days. 

But  it  did  not  come  in  two  days,  nor 
two  weeks,  nor  three;  while  she  burned 
herself  out  waiting. 

Moreover,  her  funds  were  running 
low.  She  had  waves  of  the  nausea  of 
defeat,  fevers  of  the  desperation  of  the 
last  stand. 

Then  it  occurred  to  her.  Her  armor 
had  always  been  defensive.  She  had 
never  stooped  to  neutralize  his  alkali  with 
acid.  But  there  was  one  weapon  of  of 
fence  she  occasionally  used.  She  wrote: 
"  I  am  drawing  on  you  to-day  through 
your  First  National  for  a  hundred  and 


98  Harpers  Novelettes 

fifty.  You  will  honor  it,  I  think.  And 
if  I  do  not  hear  from  you  in  a  day  or  two 
I  shall  have  Judge  Harwood  call  on  you 
as  my  attorney." 

The  answer  came  promptly  enough: — 
"My  dear  child,  I  couldn't  make  out 
what  had  struck  you,  so  I  hoped  you 
would  just  feel  better  after  blowing 
off  steam  and  would  get  over  your  fit 
of  nerves.  Besides,  I  have  nothing 
to  say  except  to  quote  yourself:  'We 
can't  escape  the  fact  that  we  are  mar 
ried  and  have  the  children.'  I  know 
you  too  well  to  be  afraid  of  your  throw 
ing  off  all  obligations  like  that.  It  is 
impossible  to  fancy  you  airing  our  pri 
vacies."  Bait?  or  a  goad?  Oh  yes,  he 
counted  on  her  "  womanly  qualities " — 
but  with  no  idea  of  masculine  emula 
tion!  "If  you  need  advice,  think  what 
either  of  our  mothers  would  say."  Her 
mother !  Judith  could  hear  her,  "  His 
doing  wrong  cannot  make  it  right  for 
you  to,"  with  logic  so  unanswerable  one 
forgot  to  question  its  relevance.  And 
his !  Judith  held  her  partly  accountable ; 
some  women  absolutely  fostered  tyranny. 
Their  mothers,  poor  things!  Occasion 
ally  their  fathers  were  different,  but  so 
occasionally  that  now  the  times  were. 
"This  sudden  mood  strikes  me  as  very 


A  Working  Basis  99 

remarkable.  After  all  I  have  done— 
twelve  years  of  grind  to  keep  you  from 
the  bmnt  of  the  world;  and  now  .  .  .  ! 
My  dear  child,  do  you  realize  that  there 
are  husbands  with  violent  tempers,  hus 
bands  who  drink  and  gamble  and  worse  ? 

"  I  honored  your  draft.  Do  not  try  it 
again.  And  I  advise  you  to  use  it  to  come 
home.  We  will  have  Dr.  Hunter  give 
you  a  tonic,  and  you  will  find  you  have 
fewer  morbid  fancies  occupied  with  your 
duties.  I  shall  look  for  you  the  end  of 
the  week."  Surely  Sam  was  moved 
quite  out  of  himself,  that  he  had  no 
lashes  of  laughter  for  her.  But  the  next 
was  more  in  character :  "  Bridget 
threatens  to  leave.  She  does  not  work 
well  under  Anne.  The  children  are  not 
manageable  under  her,  either.  Little 
Judith  is  sallow  and  fretful.  I  sus 
pect  Anne  gives  her  sweets  between 
meals.  I  saw  a  moth  flying  in  my 
closet  to-day.  .  .  ." 

Judith  pushed  the  letter  away,  fidg 
eted,  yet  smiled.  How  well  they  knew 
each  other.  And  they  used  it  only  to 
sting  and  bully!  Surely  it  could  be  put 
to  better  purpose.  Had  she  tried  every 
thing?  Had  Sam  fully  understood? 
Sometimes  she  thought  her  early  ex 
cuses  had  hurt  too  much  for  her  to  ad- 


ioo  Harper's  Novelettes 

mit  their  truth:  much  of  his  unkindness 
was  not  intentional,  only  stupid;  slow 
sympathy,  dull  sensibility;  he  did  not 
suffer,  nor  comprehend,  like  a  savage  or 
a  child.  If  the  possibility  of  separation 
was  new  to  her,  would  not  he  never  have 
thought  of  it  at  all?  But  now,  might  he 
not  see?  Was  not  his  unwonted  self- 
defence  itself  admission  of  new  enlight 
enment  and  approachability  ? 

She  sat  long  in  the  increasing  dusk. 
Exhausted  with  struggle,  loneliness  was 
on  her,  crying  need  of  the  children,  re 
turn  to  the  consideration  of  many  things. 
Admitting  that  at  times  it  was  right  to 
break  everything,  wrong  not  to,  it  was  at 
least  the  last  resort.  Love,  of  course,  was 
over  irrevocably;  but  were  there  not 
some  things  worth  saving?  Could  not 
she  and  Sarn  find  some  working  basis? 

What  had  made  their  being  together 
most  intolerable  to  her  was  their  per 
sistence  in  the  religion  of  a  vanished 
god  in  whose  empty  ceremonies  alone 
they  could  now  take  part  together.  Of 
the  sacred  image  nothing  was  left  but 
the  feet  of  clay.  Freed  of  that  desecra 
tion,  she  could  cure  or  endure  everything 
else;  her  obligations,  moreover,  would 
hardly  conflict  at  all. 
Looking  back  at  the  pressures  of  na- 


A  Working  Basis  101 

ture,  society,  events,  Sam's  persistence, 
she  wondered  at  times  if,  from  the  be 
ginning,  she  had  been  any  more  respon 
sible  for  her  marriage  than  for  the  color 
of  her  hair.  There  were  many  such  ex 
planations  for  Sam,  too.  Not  that  they 
made  her  like  him  any  better,  feel  him 
any  more  akin.  But  it  was  true  that  be 
tween  the  fatalities  of  heredity  and  en 
vironment  that  "  slight  particular  dif 
ference  "  that  makes  the  self  had  but 
short  tether  for  action  and  reaction. 
Oh,  she  could  be  generous  enough  to 
him  if  he  did  not  have  to  be  part 
of  herself! 

She  got  up,  lit  the  gas,  shutting  out  the 
stars,  and  wrote:  "I  am  coming  back  to 
make  one  more  and  one  last  effort. 
Won't  you?"  If  he  would  only  try! 

Sam  met  her  with  the  magnanimity  of 
forgiveness,  the  consciousness  of  kind 
forgetting.  Her  redeemed  valuables  were 
all  in  place.  Everything  should  be  the 
same,  in  spite  of —  And  she  put  the 
back  of  her  hand  against  his  lips! 

When  he  dressed  for  dinner  the  sal 
vage  of  the  three  balls,  the  spoils  of  war, 
were  piled  in  his  bureau  drawer. 

Still  he  hoped  better  for  the  roses  by 
her  plate.  She  had  the  maid  carry  them 
out,  explaining  in  her  absence,  "  No 


102  Harper's  Novelettes 

gifts,  please,  Sam.  Substitutes  will  not 
do  any  longer." 

Sam  played  with  his  fork,  smiling, 
with  lips  only.  How  shockingly  she 
showed  suffering.  Separation  had  made 
her  appearance  unfamiliar;  he  thought 
the  change  all  recent.  He  took  pains  to 
compliment  the  immediate  improvement 
in  the  pastry,  to  give  her  the  serv 
ants'  money  unreminded  as  soon  as  they 
were  alone. 

How  characteristic!  Judith  thought, 
wearily,  letting  the  bills  lie  where  he 
laid  them. 

"  That's  one  of  the  things  for  us  to 
settle,  Sam,"  she  said,  in  her  new  free 
dom  and  self-respect  discarding  the  fa 
miliar  little  diplomacies  by  which  she 
was  used  to  soothe,  prepare,  manage,  the 
lord  of  the  hearth.  "  I  am  not  going  to 
ask  for  money  in  the  future,  nor  depend 
on  what  you  happen  to  give."  The  man 
ner  was  a  simple  statement  of  fact. 
"  You  must  make  me  an  allowance 
through  your  bookkeeper." 

Sam  was  lounging  through  his  cigar. 
"  So  that's  it?  Still?"  He  smiled  confi 
dentially  at  the  smoke,  puffing  it  from 
his  lower  lip.  "As  accurately  as  I  can 
recollect,  my  dear,  I  have  told  you  seven 
thousand  and  three  times  that  I  am  not 


A  Working  Basis  103 

on  a  salary,  and  don't  know  from  month 
to  month  what  I  will  make." 

How  unchanged  everything  was!  Her 
determination  stiffened.  "  But  you  know 
what  you  have  made.  Base  it  on  the 
year  before.  Or  have  a  written  state 
ment  mailed  me  every  month,  and  file 
my  signature  at  the  bank." 

Not  quite  unchanged;  for  Sam  took 
the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  turned 
slowly  to  look  at  her.  If  he  had  taken 
her  return  for  capitulation  and  had  met 
it  according  to  his  code,  things  were  not 
fitting  in.  "Really,  my  dear!  Really! 
What  next?  Evidently  I  have  never  done 
you  justice;  you  have  positive  genius  m 
the  game — of  monopoly;  first  thing,  I'll 
be  begging  from  you" 

Well,  why  not,  as  fairly?  and  why 
should  he  think  better  of  her  than  of 
himself?  But  it  was  too  old  to  go 
over  again.  For  a  breath  she  waited 
to  see  her  further  way.  She  had  not 
planned  this  as  the  issue,  but  the  moment 
was  obviously  crucial,  and  offered  what, 
in  international  politics  already  awry, 
would  constitute  a  good  technical  op 
portunity.  If  her  mirage  of  regenera 
tion,  her  hope  of  an  understanding,  per 
haps  even  her  love,  had  flung  up  any  last 
afterglow  in  this  home-coming,  it  was 


104  Harper's  Novelettes 

over  now.  Indeed,  now  it  seemed  an  old 
grief,  the  present  but  confirmation  con 
cerning  a  lover  ten  years  lost  at  sea.  She 
saw  the  whole  man  now  clearly,  the  bal 
ance  of  her  accusations  and  excuses;  he 
had  neither  the  modern  spirit  of  equality, 
nor  the  medieval  quixotism  of  honor 
and  chivalry;  appeal  merely  stirred  the 
elemental  tyranny  of  strength  and  mas 
culinity,  held  as  a  "  divine  right " ;  weak 
ness  tempted  an  instinctive  cruelty,  half 
unconscious,  half  defiant. 

It  was  Sam  who  spoke  first,  abruptly, 
not  laughing.  Sam  who  was  never  angry, 
was  angry  now.  "  I  never  have  under 
stood  you  in  some  ways.  How  a  woman 
like  you  can  forever  bring  money  be 
tween  us!  How  you  got  tainted  with 
this  modern  female  anarchy!  You  seem 
to  forget  that  /  made  the  money,  it  is 
mine.  There  is  bound  to  be  discussion; 
I  never  knew  any  one  so  determined  to 
have  everything  his  own  way.  All  the 
same,"  the  defence  rested  its  case,  "  it 
takes  two  to  quarrel,  and  I  won't." 

No,  his  defence  was  only  admission 
of  conscious  weakness.  He  was  afraid — 
of  the  solution  she  had  discarded.  She 
did  not  go  back  to  it  now.  But  now 
she  saw  the  way,  the  only  way,  to  accom 
plish  reconstruction. 


A  Working  Basis  105 

Judith  looked  at  him  steadily.  Her 
voice  was  deadly  quiet.  "  I  am  sure  I 
have  made  myself  quite  plain.  We  will 
never  discuss  this  again.  You  can  let  me 
know  in  the  morning  which  arrangement 
you  choose." 

They  faced  each  other  with  level  eyes. 

And  Sam's  shifted. 

He  never  had  real  nerve,  she  realized; 
they  didn't — that  kind.  How  had  she 
managed  to  love  him  so  long? 

Late  that  night  he  knocked  at  her  door 
with  a  formal  proposition:  Would  that 
do? — dumbly.  She  changed  a  point  or 
two:  That  would  do,  and  signified  good 
night.  Sam,  looking  at  her  face,  turned 
away  from  it,  hesitated,  turned  back, 
broke.  Fear  increased  his  admiration, 
and,  to  do  him  justice,  the  fear  was  not 
wholly  for  conventions  and  comforts;  the 
man  had  certain  broad  moralities  and 
loyalties.  A  reflex  muscular  action  had 
set  in  to  regain  what  he  had  lost.  "  Ju 
dith  !  Judith !"  he  begged. 

Her  raised  hand  stopped  him.  "You 
are  too  late,  Sam." 

"My  dear,  you  mustn't  get  the  idea 
that  I  don't  love  you  still." 

"Love  has  nothing  to  do  with  it  any 
more.  Besides,  it  is  never  any  use  to  talk 
of  love  without  justice." 


io6  Harper's  Novelettes 

He  went  out,  dazed  and  aggrieved.  He 
had  always  thought  they  got  along  as 
well  as  most  people.  He  had  not  been 
cherishing  grudges. 

Womanlike,  having  met  the  emergency 
gallantly,  after  it  was  all  over  Judith 
collapsed.  The  day  of  reckoning  for 
which  she  had  so  long  been  running  up 
an  account  was  on  her.  But  the  grow 
ing  assurance  rallied  her,  that  her  going 
away  and  her  coming  back  were  equally 
means  to  her  success  in  failure. 

The  reality  of  their  marriage  could  not 
have  been  saved.  But  they  had  the  chil 
dren;  and  to  the  children  was  restored 
much  of  what  their  father  had  large 
ly  spoiled  in  the  first  place,  and  she 
nearly  forfeited  in  the  second.  For  the 
fact  was  that  Sam  did  better;  the  despot 
is  always  a  moral  coward,  and  alwaya 
something  of  the  slave  to  a  master. 
Moreover,  her  growing  invulnerability  to 
hurt  through  him  set,  in  large  measure, 
the  attitude  of  the  household;  everybody 
was  more  comfortable.  She  discounted 
his  opinions  and  complaints;  but,  in  con 
sidering  the  welfare  of  the  greatest  num 
ber,  she  sacrificed  as  little  as  possible  his 
individual  comforts.  His  interests  she 
studied.  And  for  the  rest,  she  let  him  go 
his  way  and  went  hers. 


A  Working  Basis  107 

Life  is  a  perfect  equation:  if  some 
thing  is  added  or  subtracted,  something 
is  subtracted  or  added,  so  long  as  there  is 
life.  Judith  got  her  poise  again  in  time, 
as  strong  natures  do  after  any  death; 
with  some  fibres  weakened  past  mending, 
gray,  but  calm.  If  his  side  of  her  nature 
was  stunted,  she  seemed  to  blossom  all 
the  more  richly  in  other  ways.  She  loved 
her  children  in  proportion  as  she  had 
suffered  and  worked  for  them.  After  her 
domestic  years,  like  so  many  women,  she 
took  fresh  start,  physically  and  mentally. 
Her  executive  ability  found  public  out 
let.  She  could  admit  friends  again. 
Freedom  from  the  corrosion  of  antagon 
ism  was  happiness.  Without  the  struggle 
to  keep  that  love  which  must  ask  so  much 
of  its  object,  she  could  give  Sam  more 
of  that  altruism  which  asks  nothing. 


The   Glass   Door 

BY    MARY    TRACY    EARLE 

CHAKLOTTE  and  Emory  Blake 
lived  at  the  old  Blake  place,  on  the 
little  plateau  at  the  foot  of  the 
Colton  hill,  in  a  vine-covered  stone  cottage. 
The  place  had  belonged  to  old  George 
Blake.  When  it  came  into  Emory's 
hands  he  sold  it  to  Uncle  Billy  Kerr,  and 
used  the  money  for  a  course  in  a  school 
of  pharmacy.  Later,  Charlotte,  who  was 
then  Charlotte  Hastings,  bought  it,  and, 
after  her  marriage,  finished  paying  for  it 
out  of  its  own  products,  while  her  hus 
band  talked  politics  or  played  chess  in 
his  drug-store.  It  was  said  that  when 
Blake  was  doing  either  of  these  things 
he  was  as  likely  as  not  to  keep  a  customer 
standing  a  half-hour  before  waiting  on 
him, — and  this  not  so  much  out  of  in 
terest  in  his  discussion  or  his  game  as 


The  Glass  Door  109 

from   complete   lack   of   interest    in   the 
business  of  selling  drugs. 

North  Pass  correctly  interpreted  this 
general  nonchalance  of  Blake's  as  a  sign 
that  he  was  an  unwilling  partner  in  the 
matrimonial  venture  he  had  undertaken. 
Indeed,  it  was  known  that  the  engage 
ment  had  hung  fire  for  years  through  no 
fault  of  Charlotte's,  and  everybody  had 
noticed  that  such  mildly  loverlike  en 
thusiasm  for  her  society  as  Blake  had 
shown  before  he  went  to  the  school  of 
pharmacy  had  disappeared  from  his  man 
ner  when  he  returned.  Charlotte  had 
told  people  that  they  should  marry  as 
soon  as  he  came  home,  yet  the  wedding 
did  not  come  off  for  two  years.  During 
this  time  it  was  noticed  that  although 
she  held  her  head  high  and  was  fertile 
in  good  reasons  for  the  delay,  her  girlish 
look  left  her,  her  features  sharpened,  and 
her  speech  developed  an  acid  reaction; 
it  was  at  this  time,  too,  that  she  bar 
gained  with  Uncle  Billy  Kerr  for  the 
old  Blake  place,  and  also  borrowed  money 
from  the  old  man  to  put  up  a  new  house. 
When  people  saw  the  house  going  up  it 
was  generally  supposed  that  she  was 
preparing  either  to  rent  it  or  to  live  in 
it  as  an  old  maid;  but  when  it  was 
completed,  to  the  surprise  of  every  one, 

8 


no  Harper's  Novelettes 

Charlotte   and  Blake  were  married   and 
moved  in. 

The  morning  after  the  wedding  Blake 
was  in  his  drug-store  playing  chess  as 
languidly  as  ever,  but  Charlotte  spent  her 
whole  day  planting  a  vegetable-garden, 
in  a  mood  of  unreckoning  exaltation  such 
as  rarely  comes  to  a  woman  of  her  na 
ture,  and  never  comes  to  her  but  once. 
She  had  felt  no  such  blissful  security 
when  Blake  and  she  were  first  engaged. 
Blake  was  weak.  She  had  felt  it  intense 
ly  even  when  her  infatuation  for  him 
was  too  fresh  to  permit  her  to  reason,  and 
a  weak  man  while  unmarried  is  peculiar 
ly  liable  to  changes  of  affection.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  weak  man  once 
safely  married  is  completely  in  the  power 
of  his  wife;  during  the  last  two  years 
of  their  engagement  certain  illusions  re 
garding  herself  and  Blake  had  fallen 
from  her  eyes;  she  had  stated  both  those 
facts  plainly  to  herself,  and  they  had 
helped  her  to  decide  upon  a  course  of 
action.  There  had  been  moments  when 
she  had  despised  herself  for  using  her 
stronger  will  to  coerce  Blake  into  the  ful 
filment  of  his  engagement,  but  on  the 
morning  after  the  wedding  these  moments 
were  forgotten,  and,  as  she  hoed  and  raked 
and  planted  in  the  brisk  air  and  the 


The  Glass  Door  in 

bright  spring  sunshine,  her  whole  exist 
ence  seemed  uplifted  by  the  knowledge 
that  she  and  Blake  at  last  belonged  un 
questionably  to  each  other;  that  every 
output  of  her  strength  was  for  their  com 
mon  comfort,  and  would  continue  to  be 
as  long  as  they  both  should  live. 

As  the  first  year  of  married  life  goes, 
Charlotte's  first  year  was  fairly  success 
ful.  She  knew  Blake's  faults  already, 
and  had  made  up  her  mind  to  them,  and 
if  there  was  a  frank  indifference  in  his 
quiet  languor,  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  that,  too.  He  was  never  unkind,  and 
there  were  times  when  some  fresh  evi 
dence  of  her  devotion  to  him  would  touch 
him  into  an  appreciation  that  was  almost 
responsive.  And  there  were  other  times 
when  she  would  find  him  looking  at  her 
with  an  expression  which  any  other  ob 
server  might  have  classed  as  pity,  but 
which  she  counted  as  tenderness.  On  the 
whole,  it  seemed  to  her  that  time  was 
bringing  them  together,  as  she  had  count 
ed  that  it  would,  and  with  this  hope  her 
face  lost  its  sharp  outlines. 

Her  first  heavy  chagrin  was  at  the  time 
of  her  baby's  birth.  When  Blake  came 
into  the  room  to  inquire  for  her,  ajid  she 
turned  down  the  bed-cover  to  show  him 
the  little  bundle  at  her  side,  a  look  of 


ii2  Harper's  Novelettes 

pain  and  aversion  flashed  across  his  face, 
and  he  moved  away,  begging  her  not  to 
show  the  baby  to  him  until  it  was  older. 
On  another  day  she  tried  to  make  him 
select  a  name  for  it,  and  he  refused. 

"  Call  it  anything  you  please,"  he  said 
at  first,  but  she  would  not  let  him  go 
at  that. 

"I've  been  thinking,"  she  suggested, 
with  a  hesitation  that  was  foreign  to 
her, — "  I've  been  thinking  of  calling  her 
for  your  mother — Dorcas." 

They  were  alone  in  the  room,  and  he 
was  sitting  by  her  bed,  but  looking  away 
from  her  into  the  corner  of  the  room, 
while  she  looked  anxiously  at  him.  At 
her  words  he  started,  flashing  a  keen 
glance  at  her.  "Why  should  we  name 
her  that?"  he  asked. 

There  was  something  so  sharply  dis 
turbed  in  his  manner,  and  his  distaste 
for  the  idea  was  so  evident,  that  Char 
lotte  flushed  in  extreme  embarrassment. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to,"  she 
explained. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't,— I— I  don't  think 
the  name's  pretty  in  itself,"  he  declared; 
adding,  with  a  great  effort  to  speak  nat 
urally,  "  I'd  rather  name  her  for  you." 

Charlotte's  lips  came  together  so  close 
ly  that  all  the  unpleasant  lines  showed 


The  Glass  Door  113 

around  them.  "  I  certainly  shall  not 
name  her  for  myself,"  she  said.  "You 
must  think  of  some  other  name." 

Blake  got  to  his  feet.  "That's  the 
only  one  I  can  think  of,"  he  said.  "If 
you  don't  like  it,  you  can  take  some  other. 
It's  your  affair,  not  mine." 

Charlotte's  eyes  flashed  and  then  filled 
with  tears,  for  she  was  very  weak.  "  If 
I  were  asking  you  to  father  some  other 
man's  child,  you  couldn't  act  more  as 
if  you  despised  me,"  she  sobbed. 

He  turned  as  he  was  leaving  the  room 
and  gave  her  a  long  look  full  of  exaspera 
tion,  repugnance,  and  despair.  "  You  are 
quite  mistaken,"  he  said.  "I  don't  de 
spise  you.  I  despise  myself." 

For  half  an  hour  Charlotte  sobbed,  her 
hands  clenched  at  her  sides,  her  tears 
flowing  unchecked;  then,  quite  suddenly, 
she  was  calm,  and,  drying  her  disfig 
ured  face,  she  began  to  take  account  of 
stock.  All  that  she  had  before,  she  rea 
soned,  she  still  had.  The  gains  of  a  year 
might  seem  to  be  lost  in  the  outbreak 
of  a  moment,  yet  they  still  existed  as 
a  solid  foundation  to  build  upon.  There 
would  be  constraint  at  first,  but  the  effort 
of  daily  patience  would  overcome  it  in 
time;  moreover,  there  was  the  baby. 
Blake  might  refuse  to  look  at  her  now, 


ii4  Harper's  Novelettes 

but  as  she  grew  and  acquired  the  irre 
sistible  graces  of  a  healthy  babyhood  he 
would  be  obliged  to  see  and  to  yield  to 
her.  A  man  of  his  nature  could  not  live 
in  the  house  with  a  child  and  not  love  it. 
She  touched  the  small  form  at  her  side, 
as  if  to  assure  herself  that  this  ally  which 
she  had  so  suffered  for  had  not  deserted 
her.  Yes,  she  had  more  hope  now  than 
ever  before,  she  told  herself,  and  her 
eyes  shone  with  a  passionate  tenderness, 
though  her  lips  were  set  in  a  hard  line. 
Suddenly  the  line  broke  into  a  smile. 

"  I'll  name  her  Hope,"  she  said. 

When  Hope  was  two  months  old  she 
began  her  mission,  and  when  she  had 
reached  six  months  Blake  was  vying  with 
Charlotte  in  his  devotion  to  her.  He 
even  plucked  up  a  little  interest  in  his 
business;  sometimes  he  talked  over  his 
place  with  his  wife,  and  the  words  which 
had  passed  between  them  over  the  naming 
of  the  child,  though  unforgotten,  seemed 
so  far  in  the  past  that  Charlotte's  courage 
strengthened  with  each  day.  The  sense 
of  security  which  had  marked  the  first 
months  of  her  married  life  did  not  re 
turn,  but  she  could  feel  herself  making 
a  strong  fight  against  fate  to  hold  what 
she  had,  and,  if  she  were  never  entirely 
certain  of  the  issue,  at  least  she  fought 


The  Glass  Door  115 

with  the  obstinacy  which  has  no  knowl 
edge  of  yielding.  Sometimes  even  her 
love  for  Blake  seemed  to  lose  itself  in 
this  obstinacy,  and  her  tenderness  to 
wards  her  child  seemed  the  only  womanly 
sentiment  left  in  her;  but  more  often 
her  love  for  her  husband  mounted  high 
and  unmixed  above  the  other  feelings  as 
the  tremendous,  inexplicable  passion  of 
her  life. 

Hope's  attainment  of  six  months  was 
marked  by  an  unusual  display  of  energy 
on  the  part  of  Blake.  The  first  cold 
weather  of  autumn  had  come,  and  when 
the  house  doors  were  closed,  Charlotte 
was  surprised  to  hear  her  husband  de 
clare  that  the  sitting-room,  where  the 
baby  would  spend  most  of  her  time  in 
winter,  was  poorly  lighted,  and  needed  to 
have  a  glass  door  substituted  for  the 
wooden  one  which  opened  on  to  the  front 
porch.  Still  more  to  her  surprise,  the 
door  was  delivered  from  an  adjoining 
town  the  next  day,  and  on  the  following 
morning  Blake  rose  earlier  than  usual 
and  hung  it  before  going  down  to  his 
store.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  lifted 
his  hand  towards  the  improvement  of 
Charlotte's  house. 

He  whistled  boyishly  while  he  meas 
ured  and  fitted  in  the  hinges,  and  when 


n6  Harper's  Novelettes 

it  came  to  holding  the  door  while  the 
hinges  were  screwed  in  place,  he  called 
to  Charlotte.  She  came,  with  lips  as 
usual  closed  very  tight,  but  with  cheeks 
flushed  very  pink,  and  when  the  work 
was  finished  she  was  so  atremble  that  she 
had  to  sit  down  for  a  moment  before  she 
could  put  breakfast  on  the  table. 

To  give  a  reason  for  the  delay,  she  kept 
looking  at  the  door.  "  The  room  is  per 
fect  now,"  she  said. 

Blake  swung  the  new  acquisition  back 
and  forth,  and  latched  it  once  or  twice 
to  make  sure  that  it  was  perfectly  ad 
justed.  When  he  was  satisfied  he  glanced 
at  his  wife. 

"It  will  give  our  baby  the  sunlight," 
he  said,  and  their  eyes  met  for  a  moment. 

All  that  day,  whenever  Charlotte  could 
bring  her  work  into  the  sitting-room, 
she  sat  facing  the  glass  door.  She  was 
not  exactly  happy;  she  was  too  strangely 
excited  for  happiness;  but  she  was  keen 
ly  awakened  and  alert.  Every  nerve  in 
her  seemed  keyed  up  to  its  ultimate  ten 
sion,  and  if  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  passed, 
even  if  a  red  leaf  fell  outside,  she  looked 
out  expectantly  through  the  door. 

It  was  middle  afternoon  when,  on  look 
ing  up,  she  saw  a  young  woman  crossing 
the  porch,  leading  a  little  child.  Char- 


The  Glass  Door  117 

lotte  jumped  to  her  feet,  then  reseated 
herself  and  waited  for  the  tap  on  the 
glass.  The  visitors  were  strangers  to  her, 
and  though  she  could  not  have  told  why, 
as  she  sat  staring  at  them  through  the 
door,  her  mouth  suddenly  set  into  the 
lines  of  indomitable  obstinacy  which  had 
grown  so  deep  around  it  in  the  past  three 
years.  When  she  finally  crossed  the  room 
to  open  the  door,  she  walked  slowly  and 
deliberately,  as  if  she  had  some  definite 
purpose  in  mind  and  meant  to  accom 
plish  it. 

The  woman  on  the  outside  was  the  first 
to  speak.  "Does  Mr.  Emory  Blake  live 
here?"  she  asked. 

"He  does.  I  am  his  wife.  What  can 
I  do  for  you  ?"  asked  Charlotte. 

The  woman  gave  a  little  cry  and  drew 
back.  "  Oh  no !"  she  said,  breathlessly. 

Charlotte  stood,  white  and  stiff  and  si 
lent,  while  the  other  looked  about  her  in 
a  despairing  helplessness.  She  was  a 
frail-looking  woman,  worn  with  fatigue 
and  the  excited  emotions  with  which 
timidity  spurs  itself  to  action.  She  look 
ed  as  if  she  longed  to  sit  down  some 
where,  and  as  if  perhaps  she  could  have 
more  courage  seated,  but  Charlotte  made 
no  motion  to  invite  her  to  enter.  Aft 
er  a  while  the  newcomer  brought  her 


n8  Harper's  Novelettes 

frightened  eyes  back  to  the  set  face  in 
the  doorway. 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  you,"  she  said, 
timidly.  "  I  am  his  wife." 

A  shiver  of  resentment  ran  convulsive 
ly  through  Charlotte's  muscles.  "  You 
can  be  sorry  for  yourself,"  she  said, 
roughly. 

"But  he  married  me  while  he  was  at 
the  school  of  pharmacy,"  the  other  cried, 
weakly.  "  I  was  Nettie  Trent.  I  clerked, 
and  I  boarded  where  he  did,  and  we  fell 
in  love  and  married.  He  told  me  about 
you.  You  are  Charlotte  Hastings,  aren't 
you,  that  wanted  to  marry  him  before 
he  left  home?" 

Charlotte  moved  her  dry  lips  sound 
lessly  once  or  twice  before  she  could 
speak.  Then  her  masterful  spirit  rose  to 
a  new  task.  She  drew  herself  up  and 
looked  down  gravely,  almost  compassion 
ately,  upon  the  woman  who  had  been 
Nettie  Trent. 

"  I  was  Charlotte  Hastings  before  my 
marriage,"  she  said.  "I  am  sorry  to  be 
the  one  to  hurt  you,  but  you  have  been 
cruelly  treated.  I  was  married  to  Emory 
Blake  before  he  left  home  for  the  school." 

The  smaller  woman  gave  a  little  gasp 
and  stood  silent,  while  Charlotte,  with 
the  fire  in  her  veins  scorching  her  cheeks 


The  Glass  Door  119 

end  eyes  and  almost  smothering  her 
breath,  waited  for  her  to  offer  some  re 
sistance,  to  assert  her  own  claim,  or  to 
ask  for  proof  of  the  statement  which 
denied  it;  but  Nettie  said  nothing,  and 
after  a  moment  her  gaze  dropped  from 
Charlotte's  and  she  began  to  sob.  Char 
lotte  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her 
into  the  room. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  long  time. 
Nettie  sat  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands.  On  one  side  her  child  tugged  at 
her  dress;  on  the  other,  little  Hope  slept 
in  her  cradle.  Charlotte  stood  pale  and 
tall,  watching  all  three. 

At  last  Nettie  looked  up.  "  I  suppose 
you  think  I  ought  to  hate  him — now 
I've  found  out,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't; 
I  just  can't.  When  we  were  together  he 
was  so  sweet  to  me.  I  don't  think  he 
meant  to  harm  me.  He  must  have 
thought  it  would  come  out  all  right 
somehow." 

"If  I  were  in  your  place,"  Charlotte 
said,  slowly,  "  I  should  hate  him." 

Nettie  wiped  her  eyes  and  drew  her 
child  up  into  her  arms.  "But  what  he 
did  was  almost  as  tad  for  you  as  it 
was  for  me,"  she  urged,  "and  you  don't 
hate  him." 

Charlotte  turned  suddenly  and  walked 


120  Harper's  Novelettes 

to  her  own  baby's  cradle.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
know,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

After  a  moment  she  came  back  and 
sat  down.  "  I  must  ask  you  some  ques 
tions,"  she  said,  gravely.  "Is  this  your 
only  child?" 

The  young  woman  nodded.  Her  lips 
were  quivering.  "Named  Dorcas,"  she 
said,  brokenly, — "  for  his  mother." 

Charlotte  flushed  and  the  lines  about 
her  lips  deepened.  "Does  he — provide 
for  you  ?"  she  asked. 

The  other  nodded  once  more.  "  He 
sends  me  money  once  in  a  while.  I  wrote 
him  not  to  worry  when  he  didn't  have  it. 
I'm  clerking  again." 

Charlotte  made  no  comment. .  She  was 
thinking  how  strange  it  was  that  this 
other  woman,  who  was  a  frail,  poor- 
spirited  thing,  should  be  ready  to  sup 
port  herself  and  child  out  of  love  for 
Blake.  In  Charlotte's  mind,  which  was 
pitilessly  clear  and  active,  there  was  room 
for  a  passing  wonder  at  the  mysterious 
power  which  so  weak  a  man  could  exert 
over  women,  even  without  his  will.  She 
was  wondering,  too,  if  her  own  passion 
for  him  would  ever  rise  again.  At  pres 
ent  she  was  far  from  loving  him ;  she  felt 
only  a  bitter  resentment,  a  desire  to  pun 
ish  him  by  holding  to  him,  and  a  tower- 


The  Glass  Door  121 

ing  obstinacy  and  pride  which  refused  to 
be  set  at  fault  and  put  to  shame.  While 
she  was  boldly  examining  and  analyzing 
herself  she  glanced  at  the  clock  to  see 
how  long  before  he  could  possibly  return ; 
the  time  was  ample,  and  she  continued  to 
sit  silent.  Presently  her  baby  woke,  and 
she  rose  and  went  to  it. 

As  she  lifted  it  from  its  cradle,  Nettie 
started  up  and  came  towards  her.  Hope 
hid  her  face  against  her  mother's  neck, 
but  after  an  instant  turned  shyly  to  steal 
a  glance  at  the  stranger. 

Nettie  sat  down  again,  trembling. 
"  Your  baby  is  like  him,"  she  said. 

"  Very  like  him,"  Charlotte  answered, 
and  as  the  baby  nestled  up  to  her  again, 
she  dropped  her  cheek  against  it  and 
tears  came  into  her  eyes — scalding  tears 
that  seemed  to  sear  their  way  up  from 
the  depths  of  her  heart. 

Suddenly  the  other  wife  leaned  for 
ward,  eagerly  suspicious.  "You  have  no 
other  children — older?"  she  asked. 

Charlotte  looked  round  blankly,  her 
eyes  still  wet.  "  Other  children?"  she 
echoed,  but  Nettie's  sharpened  face 
brought  her  to  herself.  She  wiped  her 
eyes  on  Hope's  dress.  "  I  lost — a  child," 
she  said. 

"  Oh,"   Nettie  murmured,   "  I'm   sorry 


122  Harper's  Novelettes 

I  asked  you.    It  was  older  than  Dorcas  ?" 

Charlotte  stood  at  bay,  with  her  child 
strained  close  to  her.  She  nodded. 

"Oh!"  Nettie  murmured  again,  in  a 
shaken  voice.  She  looked  at  Charlotte  in 
despairing  envy.  "  What  is  this  baby 
named?"  she  asked. 

"  This  one,"  Charlotte  answered,  "  we 
call  Hope." 

She  seated  herself  and  began  trotting 
the  child  to  a  slow  measure.  There  were 
still  a  few  questions  which  she  wished 
to  ask,  but  the  other's  simple  acceptance 
of  all  she  said  inspired  her  with  cool 
deliberation.  There  was  plenty  of  time, 
and  she  wished  to  make  no  mistake.  She 
must  be  sure  of  her  own  safety,  and  afiter 
that  she  must  do  anything  she  could  for 
the  comfort  of  the  other  woman.  It 
would  probably  be  very  little. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?"  she  inquired, 
finally.  "You  must  have  asked  some 
body  where  Mr.  Blake  lived." 

"  No,  I  didn't  have  to  ask.  He'd  writ 
ten  me  he  was  boarding  with  a  woman 
that  lived  on  his  old  place,"  Nettie  said, 
"  and  I  knew  where  that  was  because 
he'd  often  told  me  all  about  where  he 
grew  up  and  just  the  road  he  used  to  take 
from  the  station  to  the  house,  and  I  re 
membered  every  word  of  it.  I  didn't  like 


The  Glass  Door  123 

to  go  to  him  at  his  store  for  fear  there 
would  be  loafers  around,  so  I  came  right 
to  his  house.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  mind 
telling  the  woman  that  I  was  his  wife, 
if  she  asked  me  any  questions  while  I 
waited  for  him." 

"  You  were  very  wise,"  Charlotte  said, 
dryly. 

Nettie  settled  back  in  her  chair,  rock 
ing  her  little  girl,  who  had  grown  rest 
less  and  impatient,  and  as  she  rocked 
she  began  to  pour  out  her  heart.  "  You 
must  think  queer  of  me  to  sit  down  here 
with  you  like  this  and  not  to  be  in  a 
rush  to  go,"  she  began,  "but  I  feel  like 
I've  got  to  sit  still  and — and  kind  of  get 
my  breath  before  I  can  start  out.  I've 
been  so  afraid  of  it  that  it  doesn't  seem 
like  I  ought  to  be  surprised,  but  I  tell 
you  it  pretty  near  kills  me  now  I  know 
it  for  sure."  She  paused  and  stroked  a 
stray  lock  of  hair  away  from  her  child's 
eyes.  "  My  baby's  like  him,  too,"  she  said, 
irrelevantly.  "  My  baby's  just  as  like 
him  as  yours  is." 

Charlotte  glanced  again  at  the  clock. 
"  How  do  your  friends  treat  you  ?"  she 
asked,  abruptly.  "Do  they  believe  you 
were  really  married  or  not  ?" 

A  bright  flush  sprang  over  Nettie's 
face.  "They  believed  it  at  first,  of 


124  Harper's  Novelettes 

course,  just  the  way  I  did,"  she  answered, 
quickly,  "  but  lately  they've  been  suspect 
ing  something.  It  was  what  they  said 
made  me  get  uneasy.  I  don't  distrust 
folks  right  quick  myself." 

"And  none  of  them  tried  to  make  in 
quiries  for  you  ?" — Charlotte  put  the  ques 
tion  seriously,  all  her  nerves  tight  strung. 

"  Oh  no,"  Nettie  said.  "  I  don't  have 
any  family  or  any  friends  close  enough 
to  me  to  take  trouble  like  that." 

"And  I  presume  you're  glad  now  that 
they  didn't,"  Charlotte  said.  "In  your 
place  I'd  rather  find  it  out  for  myself." 

"Oh,  I'd  much  rather,"  Nettie  an 
swered.  "I  couldn't  have  stood  having 
other  people  find  it  out,  and  I'm  not  go 
ing  to  give  anybody  that  knows  me  a 
chance  to  find  out  now.  You  see,  I've 
been  afraid  of  this  so  long  that  I've  had 
time  to  make  my  plans  and  to  save  up 
money  a  little.  Before  I  came  here  I 
gave  up  my  place  and  told  folks  I  was 
going  to  join  Mr.  Blake;  so  I'll  not 
go  back.  I'll  go  to  New  York  and  get 
work  there." 

Charlotte  looked  at  her  keenly.  "I 
suppose  you're  depending  on  Mr.  Blake 
to  help  you  ?"  she  said. 

Again  the  color  sprang  into  Nettie's 
face-  "  Oh  no,  ma'am,"  she  answered. 


The  Glass  Door  125 

"  I  couldn't  let  him  help  me  now.  I  did 
wrong  to  live  with  him,  but  I  didn't 
know  he  was  married,  so  I  don't  feel 
like  one  of  that  kind  of  women;  but  if  I 
was  to  take  money  from  him  now,  I — I 
shouldn't  feel  that  I  was  raising  my 
child  honest." 

Charlotte  lifted  her  baby  so  that  it 
hid  her  face.  "For  him  to  help  you 
would  only  be  right,"  she  said,  from  its 
shelter.  "  He  owes  you — money,  at  least." 

The  other  shook  her  head.  "I  could 
n't  bear  it,"  she  said,  chokingly.  "  Oh, 
you  can't  understand — nobody  could  un 
derstand  unless  she'd  been  through  what 
I  have,  being  left  before  my  baby  came, 
and  having  people  ask  me  close  questions, 
and  then,  little  by  little,  losing  my  own 
faith.  You  can't  see  why,  but  if  I  was 
to  take  money  from  him  now,  it  would 
make  me  feel  my  shame,  and  I  don't  want 
to, — I  want  to  feel  honest." 

Charlotte  lowered  Hope  to  her  knee. 
"Perhaps  I  can  understand  that — in  a 
way,"  she  said,  with  twitching  lips. 

Nettie  looked  into  her  face  with  a 
helpless,  childish  perception  of  the  suf 
fering  shown  in  its  drawn  lines.  "  You're 
so  good  to  me — I  believe  you  feel  'most 
as  bad  as  I  do,"  she  declared ;  "  and  if  I 
were  you,  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  to  any- 

9 


126  Harper's  Novelettes 

body  about  my  having  been  here.  No 
body  knows  it.  I  didn't  have  to  ask  my 
way.  There  aren't  many  women  would 
treat  me  the  way  you  do,  and  I  won't 
stay  here  any  longer  making  you  feel 
bad."  She  rose,  still  holding  her  heavy 
child  in  her  arms.  "There  isn't  any 
thing  more  we've  got  to  say  to  each 
other,  is  there?"  she  asked. 

"Wait,  a  moment,"  Charlotte  said. 
She,  too,  rose,  and  as  she  stood  looking 
at  the  other  woman,  so  much  smaller, 
so  much  weaker,  so  blindly  trustful,  and 
so  patient,  her  heart,  which  had  sunk  in 
shame,  rose  suddenly  in  pity;  at  that 
moment  if  she  had  opened  her  lips  the 
truth  would  have  escaped  from  them, 
but  her  stubborn  will  held  her  lips  closed. 

Nettie  eyed  her  with  troubled  uncer 
tainty,  but  after  a  moment  moved  to 
wards  the  door. 

"  Well,  I  must  go,"  she  declared. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  Charlotte  said 
again.  Her  voice  was  so  dry  and  strange 
that  after  she  had  spoken  she  paused  to 
moisten  her  lips.  Her  limbs  trembled, 
and  in  the  glass  door  which  she  had 
opened  against  the  wall  she  could  see 
the  ashen  whiteness  of  her  face. 

Nettie  turned,  and  the  two  women  con 
fronted  each  other,  each  holding  her  child. 


The  Glass  Door  127 

Charlotte  put  a  hand  up  to  her  throat. 
"  I  have  money  I  could  give  you,"  she 
offered.  "  Not  his,  my  own." 

The  other  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  I 
couldn't,"  she  exclaimed.  "Anyway,  I 
don't  need  it.  I've  saved  up  a  good  deal. 
And  you've  done  better  than  give  me 
money;  you've  been  kind  to  me."  She 
put  out  her  hand  with  a  little  appealing 
gesture  and  took  Charlotte's,  which  lay 
cold  in  it. 

"You'd  better  go,"  Charlotte  broke 
out.  "You'll  meet  him  coming  home  if 
you  wait  any  longer.  Here;  I'll  tell  you 
how  to  go  a  roundabout  way." 

She  walked  out  on  to  the  piazza  and  led 
the  way  down  the  steps  and  round  to  the 
back  of  the  house,  where  she  stood  giving 
short,  sharp  directions,  when  across  her 
hurried  words  came  Blake's  voice  calling 
from  the  front: 

"Charlotte!  Charlotte!  Where  are 
you  and  Hope?" 

For  the  first  time  since  they  had  lived 
together  Blake  had  come  home  before 
his  hour. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other. 
Charlotte  pointed  to  the  path  which  hid 
itself  quickly  in  the  shelter  of  an  orchard. 
"Run,"  she  whispered.  "I'll  keep  him 
in  the  house." 


128  Harper's  Novelettes 

But  Nettie  stood  as  if  paralyzed,  her 
eyes  widening  and  filling  with  tears. 
"  Oh,  you've  been  so  good — mayn't  I 
see  him — mayn't  I  bid  him  good-by?" 
she  begged. 

Charlotte  lifted  her  voice  to  answer 
Blake.  "  Yes,  Emory ;  stay  where  you 
are;  I'm  bringing  Hope,"  she  called. 
"  Hurry !"  she  whispered  to  the  other 
woman.  "It  won't  do  you  any  good  to 
see  him.  Think  of  what  he's  done. 
Hurry,  I  say!" 

Nettie  put  her  hand  up  to  her  head. 
"I — I  can't,"  she  murmured.  She  sway 
ed  a  little,  and  before  Charlotte  could 
reach  out  to  catch  her  she  had  slipped  to 
the  ground. 

At  the  same  moment  Blake  came  out  of 
the  back  door  of  the  house.  For  an  in 
stant  he  stared  in  bewilderment.  Then 
he  was  at  Nettie's  side  and  had  lifted 
her  in  his  arms. 

Charlotte  saw  his  face  as  he  kissed 
her.  A  moment  later  she  was  indoors 
on  her  knees  beside  her  bed,  with  her 
face  buried  in  the  cover  and  her  hands 
clutching  it. 

A  cold  wind  swept  through  the  house. 
Front  and  back  the  doors  stood  open. 
The  sun  was  already  low  in  the  west  and 
the  evening  promised  to  be  chill.  Pres- 


The  Glass  Door  129 

ently  Charlotte  rose.  She  closed  the 
front  door  carefully,  wrapped  Hope  in  a 
cloak,  and,  with  her  child  on  her  arm, 
passed  out  at  the  back. 

Blake  had  stretched  his  wife  on  the 
back  porch  and  was  bending  over  her. 
He  looked  up,  and  at  sight  of  Charlotte's 
face  he  straightened  himself. 

She  paused  an  instant.  "  I'm  starting 
to  harness  the  horse,"  she  said.  "You 
can  catch  the  night  train  at  Antioch  if  I 
drive  fast." 

He  stood  silent,  his  face  working.  It 
was  as  if  strength  were  being  born  in 
him  to  say  something  in  his  own  defence. 

"She  has  plans,"  Charlotte  added. 
"You'd  better  pick  up  some  of  your 
things  in  the  house." 

She  passed  on,  and  laying  Hope  in  the 
bottom  of  the  wagon,  harnessed  the  horse 
with  swift,  shaking  hands.  The  sun  was 
out  of  sight  when  she  drove  back  to  the 
house.  Nettie  sat  on  the  steps  star 
ing  dazedly  around  her.  Blake  was  not 
in  sight. 

"Are  you  ready?"  Charlotte  called. 

He  came  out,  carrying  an  old  hand 
bag.  At  the  step  he  hesitated. 

She  pointed  to  the  back  seat,  where  he 
was  to  sit  with  Nettie  and  the  child,  and 
after  an  instant  he  helped  them  in. 


130  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  ride  was  long  and  cold.  Night 
fell,  and  the  stars  came  out  in  remote, 
hostile  legions.  The  children  slept.  Oc 
casionally  Nettie  and  Blak©  advised  to 
gether  in  hushed  voices.  Charlotte 
whipped  the  horse. 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  end  of  their 
journey  Blake  leaned  forward  and  touch 
ed  her  arm. 

"  What  about  the  store?"  he  asked. 

Charlotte  broke  her  long  silence  harsh 
ly.  "Your  stock  will  cover  what  you 
owe  on  it,  I  guess." 

At  the  station  she  stayed  in  the  wagon. 
Blake  took  his  wife  and  Dorcas  into  the 
waiting-room  and  came  back  for  his  bag. 
Charlotte  had  it  ready  for  him,  resting 
on  the  wheel. 

He  did  not  offer  to  take  it  at  first,  but 
stood  in  the  beam  from  the  station  win 
dow,  trying  to  speak. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"  I  guess  there's  not  much  I  can  say," 
he  choked  out. 

For  a  long  time  she  made  no  answer. 
Then  her  breath  came  with  an  unex 
pected  gasp.  "It  wasn't  your  fault — I 
made  you  do  it."  For  a  moment  more 
they  were  silent.  Then  she  shifted  the 
sleeping  baby  towards  him. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  kiss  her  ?"  she  asked. 


The  Glass  Door  131 

He  bent  his  face  to  the  child  with  a 
sudden  passionate  tenderness.  As  he 
looked  up,  his  wet  eyes  met  Charlotte's, 
which  were  full  of  tears. 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  him.  "I 
guess  I've  been  hard  on  you,"  she  said. 


Elizabeth   and  Davic 

BY   MURIEL   CAMPBELL   DYAB 

WHEN  the  town  doctor,  coming 
out  to  Turkey  Kidge,  had 
given  as  his  verdict  that  Eliza 
beth's  one  chance  of  life — he  could  not 
say  how  slim  the  chance  in  that  plain 
room,  having  within  it  the  pleasant  noise 
of  bees  and  the  spring  sun  on  the  floor 
— lay  in  her  going  to  the  great  hospital 
in  the  city,  it  was  Davie  who  fell  to 
sobbing  in  his  worn  hands. 

"I'll  jest  die  at  home,  Davie,"  she 
said  in  her  quiet  voice. 

"You'll  take  the  money  put  away  for 
our  buryin'  an'  go,  dearie !"  Davie  cried 
out  fiercely.  His  gaunt  frame,  stooped 
as  a  scholar's,  shook  so  pitifully  with  his 
grief,  she  had  not  the  heart  to  gainsay 
him,  but  after  she  promised  him  it  only 
shook  the  more. 

"Why,  Davie,"  she  chided,  brightly, 
"  ain't  I  always  been  a-wantin'  to  see 
the  city  streets  with  the  hurryin'  people, 


Elizabeth  and  Da  vie  133 

'n'  tall  houses,  'n'  churches  with  towers 
on  'em?  They  ain't  many  folks  on  th' 
Kidge  '11  hev  sech  a  lettin'-out  as  mine." 

"  If  I  only  had  'nough  saved  to  go 
too,"  he  mourned. 

She  answered  him  simply :  "  An' 
who'd  I  hev  to  write  to  me,  with  you 
goin'  'long?  It  '11  seem  terrible  nice  to 
hear  from  somebody.  I  always  did  love 
letters.  Sence  Cousin  Tabby  died  I 
ain't  had  one." 

"You  won't  be  afeard  travellin'  so  far 
by  yourself?"  he  asked  then,  awestruck. 
Davie  had  the  diffidence  of  the  untrav- 
elled.  Few  men  ever  left  the  small 
farming  district  of  Turkey  Ridge  for 
a  journey;  but  if  one  did  so,  and  the 
trip  were  long,  he  had  thereafter  a 
bolder  bearing. 

"Afeard?"  She  gave  a  little  trem 
bling  laugh  which  would  have  deceived 
no  one  but  a  dull  old  man,  now  smitten 
suddenly  by  sorrow.  "  The  idee  o'  my 
bein'  afeard!  They  ain't  a  mite  o* 
danger  o'  gettin'  run  over  er  lost  er 
nothin' — not  a  mite." 

Under  the  pretext  of  bending  to  hunt 
for  a  lost  pin  she  hid  the  sad  fear  in  her 
eyes — a  fear  of  all  the  greater  world 
which  was  beyond  Davie,  from  whom  she 
had  not  been  parted  since  her  marriage. 


134  Harper's  Novelettes 

But  throughout  the  time  of  her  prep 
aration  she  went  bravely.  She  would 
herself  have  put  in  order  for  leaving  the 
house  kept  spotless  even  while  her  dis 
ease  had  crept  upon  her,  but  the  news 
of  the  doctor's  words  had  gone  up 
through  the  group  of  farmhouses,  hud 
dled  like  timid  sheep  on  the  road,  and 
the  kindly  neighbor  women  left  their  own 
work,  very  heavy  in  the  spring-time,  to 
take  her  household  burdens.  In  a  com 
munity  where  no  great  things  ever  came 
save  two,  and  these  two  birth  and  death, 
misfortune  drew  soul  to  soul.  Because 
of  her  gathering  weakness  she  yielded 
that  others  should  do  the  tasks  which  had 
always  hitherto  been  hers,  but  she  could 
not  be  prevented  from  the  packing  of 
the  little  leather  trunk  that  had  held  her 
wedding  things.  "You're  jest  makin' 
me  out  a  foolish,  lazy  body,"  she  said, 
her  lips  seen  quivering  for  the  first  time. 
Then,  fearful  lest  she  should  seem  un 
grateful  for  the  kindness  of  her  friends, 
she  made  haste  to  ask  where,  in  the 
trunk,  to  put  her  staid,  coarse  linen,  and 
where  her  best  cap  with  its  fine  bow  of 
lavender  ribbon,  and  would  they  if  they 
were  she  take  her  mending-basket  along 
in  hopes  there  might  be  moments  for 
Davie's  socks? 


Elizabeth  and  Davie  135 

Many  a  loving  offering  was  tucked  in 
with  her  belongings  to  go  with  her.  Now 
blue-eyed  Annie  Todd  knocked  at  the 
door,  bringing  a  bunch  of  healing  herbs 
from  her  mother,  who  could  not  leave 
for  reason  of  her  nursing  baby.  Then 
old  Mr.  Bayne  drove  into  the  dooryard 
with  a  pair  of  knitted  bedroom  slippers, 
wrapped  carefully  in  a  newspaper.  Next 
Kerrenhappuch  Green,  perturbed  in  his 
long  jaw,  pottered  down  to  fetch  the  pin- 
ball  which  his  daughter  had  forgotten 
when  she  came  to  help.  Mrs.  Glegg,  who 
had  lately  lost  her  idiot  son,  Benje,  gave 
a  roll  of  soft  flannel.  Miss  Panthea 
Potter  contributed  a  jar  of  currant  jam, 
three  years  sealed,  and  pretended  that 
she  was  not  moved.  The  minister  copied 
out  a  verse  from  the  Psalms  and  fixed  it 
so  cunningly  about  a  gold  piece  that, 
proud  as  a  girl  in  her  poverty,  Elizabeth 
could  not  refuse  the  gentle  gift.  It  was 
he,  too,  possessing  the  advantage  of  a 
clerkly  hand,  who  arranged  for  Eliza 
beth's  admission  to  the  free  ward  of  the 
hospital,  and  wrote  to  his  niece  Mary, 
living  by  good  fortune  in  the  city,  to 
have  a  care  over  her  while  there.  He 
told  that  Mary  had  a  kind,  good-humored 
face,  and  was  herself  country  born. 

"I'll   be   better   able   to   thank  ye   all 


136  Harper's  Novelettes 

fittenly,"  the  white-haired  old  woman 
said,  "  when  I  come  back  to  ye  well 
V  strong." 

The  last  day  before  she  was  to  start, 
all  that  was  possible  being  done  for  her, 
she  and  Davie  were  left  to  themselves,  at 
the  minister's  suggestion.  Forty  "years 
before,  Davie  had  brought  her  to  the 
house,  yet  in  her  soft  marriage  dress. 
The  wedding  journey  had  been  the  com 
ing  up  at  sunset  to  the  Ridge  from  her 
home  in  the  valley,  behind  his  plough- 
horses,  lifting  their  plodding  hoofs  as  in 
the  furrows.  On  the  clean  straw  in  the 
back  of  the  wagon  rested  her  small  trunk 
and  a  hive  of  bees,  shrouded  in  calico. 
Tied  to  the  tail-piece  was  a  homesick 
heifer.  While  he  unhitched  the  horses 
and  placed  her  dowry,  she  entered  his 
door  to  lay  off  her  bonnet  tremulously  in 
the  living-room. 

Alone  with  the  clumsy  carpet -loom 
which  made  his  winter's  work,  and  his 
tired  week-day  hat  hanging  from  a  peg 
against  the  wall,  she  had  a  deep  moment. 
Joining  him  on  the  door-step,  they  sat 
side  by  side  watching  in  silence  the  light 
die  over  the  scanty  fields  handed  down  to 
him  by  his  father,  who  had  grown  bent 
and  weary  in  wrenching  a  living  from 
them  as  he  was  aging.  Neither  was 


Elizabeth  and  Davie  137 

young:;  both  were  marked  by  the  swift 
homeliness  of  the  hard-working;  but  the 
look  on  their  faces  was  that  which  falls 
when  two  have  gotten  an  immortal  youth 
and  beauty  in  each  other's  hearts. 

It  had  been  their  custom  on  each  sue 
ceeding  spring  to  go,  if  the  anniversary 
ware  pleasant,  to  sit  again  at  evening  on 
the  door-step  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
straggling  spice-bush  upon  it.  Now  as 
they  sat  there  a  silence  came  upon  them 
like  that  of  their  wedding-day.  Eliza 
beth  broke  it  first. 

"  Davie,"  she  whispered,  "  if  I'd  say 
I'd  jest  like  to  run  through  the  house  a 
minute  by  myself,  you  won't  think  it 
queer  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Davie,  something 
gripping  his  chest. 

She  went  slowly,  her  slippers  flapping 
back  and  forth  on  her  heels.  She  sought 
first  the  tidy  kitchen  with  its  scoured 
tins,  then  the  living-room  with  the  old 
loom  still  in  the  corner,  then  the  parlor. 
Here  she  drew  a  long,  shaken  breath. 
Every  Ridge  woman  loved  her  parlor 
with  an  inherited  devotion.  Many  unre 
corded  self-sacrifices  furnished  it.  Eliza 
beth's  lay  hallowed  to  her.  It  was  her 
Place  Beautiful.  There  was  a  pale, 
striped  paper  on  the  sacred  walls,  and  on 


138  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  floor  an  ingrain  carpet,  dully  blue. 
At  the  windows  were  ruffled  white  cur 
tains — the  ruffles  and  sheer  lengths  of 
lawn  had  lain  long  in  her  dreams.  The 
mantel-piece  held  a  row  of  shells,  their 
delicate  pink  linings  showing,  and  on 
either  end  china  vases  filled  with  sprays 
of  plumy  grass.  Above  was  the  mar 
riage  certificate,  neatly  framed.  On  the 
centre-table  were  sundry  piteous  orna 
ments,  deeply  rooted  in  her  affections. 
The  chairs  and  the  single  sofa,  angular 
and  sombre,  were  set  about  with  proud 
precision.  They  had  been  the  result  of 
years  of  careful  hoarding  of  egg-money, 
and  were,  to  Elizabeth,  the  achievement 
of  her  living. 

Holding  on  to  the  banister,  she  climb 
ed  the  stairs  forlornly  to  the  upper  cham 
bers.  In  her  own  room  Davie  found  her 
by  and  by.  She  was  sitting  up  very 
straight  in  her  rocker,  a  baby's  long 
clothes  on  her  lap.  Her  expression  of 
pain  was  gone,  and  in  its  stead  was  the 
strange  peace  of  a  woman  who  sees  her 
first-born.  She  looked  up  absently  at 
her  husband. 

"  Melindy  Ethel,"  her  voice  crooned, 
"  was  so  little  'n'  warm." 

"  You  must  jest  lay  down  'n'  rest, 
dearie,"  he  urged,  anxiously.  He  took 


Elizabeth  and  Da  vie  139 

the  things  from  her  and  laid  them  back, 
one  by  one,  in  the  lower  drawer  of  the 
high,  glass-knobbed  bureau  whence  she 
had  taken  them.  The  thin  stuff  of  the 
little,  listless  sleeves  and  yellowed  skirts 
clung  to  his  roughened  fingers;  he  freed 
them  with  gentleness. 

"  An'  her  hair  would  hev  curled,"  she 
said,  when  the  last  piece  was  in. 

Davie  had  been  kneeling  among  his 
vegetables  that  summer-time  long  since 
that  Elizabeth  had  come  to  stand  beside 
him  in  their  garden,  pushing  from  her 
forehead  her  heavy  falling  hair,  then 
dark,  in  the  way  she  had  if  very  glad. 
Seeing  that  she  had  something  to  tell 
him,  and  wondering  at  her  eyes,  he  wait 
ed  for  her  to  speak.  She  did  not  keep 
him  long.  For  an  instant  her  serene 
glance  went  up  to  the  blue  sky.  Then 
her  hands  stretched  out  to  him. 

"Davie,"  she  began,  "that  old  cradle 
of  your  ma's — "  She  broke  off  shyly. 

Davie  stayed  on  his  knees.  He  could 
not  at  once  answer  her,  but  could  only 
grope  toward  her  blindly.  Presently  her 
touch  calmed  him. 

"  It  rocks  from  head  to  foot,"  he 
quavered  in  joy,  "'stead  o'  from  side  to 
side — the  motion's  better  for  'em." 

Striving     to     go     well     through     her 


140  Harper's  Novelettes 

troubled  months  until  her  hour  should 
come,  Elizabeth  smiled  often  at  Davie, 
and  sometimes  the  smile  was  a  tender 
laugh  in  her  throat — Davie  clumping  ex 
citedly  over  the  farm  about  his  work; 
Davie  bringing  home  from  town  the 
cautious  purchase  of  a  child's  sack,  and 
crying  out  in  exultation,  "  It's  got 
tossels  on  it!"  Davie  storing  singular 
treasures  in  a  box  in  the  garret — seed- 
pods  which  rattled  when  you  shook  them ; 
scarlet  wood-berries,  gay  and  likely  to 
please;  a  tin  whistle,  a  rubber  ball,  a 
doll  with  joints,  and  a  folded  paper  hav 
ing  written  on  it,  "For  Croup  a  poultis 
of  onions  and  heeting  the  feet " ;  and 
Davie,  his  importance  dropped  from  him 
as  a  garment,  coming  to  put  his  head 
down  against  her  shoulder. 

"  I  dun'no',"  he  said  to  her,  "  as  a  man 
better  feel  too  uppity  'bout  becomin'  a 
pa.  It's  an  awful  solemn  undertaking 
an'  the  more  you  think  it  over  the  sol- 
emner  it  gets.  Seems  to  me  it's  some- 
thin'  like  playin'  the  fiddle.  There  can't 
jest  anybody  rush  in  an'  play  a  real  good 
time  on  a  fiddle — takes  a  terrible  lot  o' 
preparin'  V  hard  work  to  tech  them 
little  strings  to  music.  An'  mebbe  the 
man  that  can  tech  'em  the  best  is  him 
that's  always  been  clean  'n'  honest  'n' 


Elizabeth  and  Da  vie  141 

real  grave.  I'm  beginnin'  to  feel  so  no 
'count — why,  I  dun'no'  a  note  o'  fid 
dle  music !" 

"Oh,  Davie,"  she  had  comforted,  "it 
don't  seem  to  me  that  the  man  jest  \>orn 
good  'd  play  the  sweetest,  but  the  one 
who  had  fought  for  things." 

While  she  turned  the  tiny  hems  and 
ran  the  wonderful  seams,  Davie,  winter- 
bound,  sat  on  the  tall  stool  before  his 
loom,  the  bobbins  wound  with  rags  for 
a  hit  and  miss.  Weaving  eked  out  a 
slender  income.  His  father's  finger-tips, 
too,  had  become  stained  by  colors  of 
warp  and  woof  after  the  end  of  the  pig- 
killing  had  been  announced  by  the  chil 
dren  racing  with  the  bladders  through 
the  thin  snow. 

On  Christmas  day  he  brought  down 
the  cradle  from  the  garret,  and  wiped 
its  gathered  dust  from  it  with  a  white 
cloth.  To  please  him,  Elizabeth  spread 
it  ready  with  the  sheets  and  blankets. 
The  sight  of  the  pillow  unmanned  him. 
"  The  idee  o'  that  stove  smokin'  so 
Christmas!"  he  choked.  She  turned  to 
him  quickly.  Their  seamed  hands  met 
as  in  that  joyous  moment  among  the 
vegetables,  but  this  time  they  clasped 
above  a  dusted  cradle.  In  view  of  the  in 
creased  expenses  before  the  household 


142  Harper's  Novelettes 

they  made  each  other  no  gifts;  only 
Davie  put  a  fir  bough  and  a  teething-ring 
in  his  box. 

Then  he  wove  as  though  the  clack  of 
his  shuttle  were  the  beat  of  a  drum  going 
by,  then  in  a  vast  impatience,  then  with 
the  bridle  hanging  on  the  rim  of  the 
manger  by  the  plough-horse  which  had 
a  saddle  gait. 

The  morning  that  he  clambered,  fright 
ened,  into  the  saddle  a  great  cold  wave 
was  on  the  Ridge,  with  a  fierce  wind  con 
tinually  blowing.  Smoke  curled  up  from 
the  chimneys  to  perish  against  the  sunny 
sky.  Cattle  left  in  the  open  crowded  in 
the  lee  of  the  straw-stacks,  their  rough 
flanks  crawling,  and  in  the  folds  the 
ewes,  yet  frail  from  their  travail,  stood 
stung  and  still,  mothering  their  weak- 
kneed  lambs.  Beside  the  thud  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  toward  town  there  was  no 
sound  on  the  road  save  a  little,  dry 
•  cracking  of  the  frost.  The  doctor,  as  he 
started  in  his  carriage  for  Davie's  house, 
drew  his  robes  closely  about  him  and 
scowled  at  the  fierceness  of  the  blast;  but 
Davie,  riding  far  ahead,  his  elbows  flying 
wildly  up  and  down,  did  not  know  that 
he  had  forgotten  to  fasten  his  shabby 
overcoat.  Crouched  by  the  silent  loom, 
he  clutched  helplessly  at  the  hit  and  miss 


Elizabeth  and  Davie  143 

as  Elizabeth  went  down  into  that  lone 
liest  of  all  earth's  agonies. 

But  from  the  beginning  the  child  hung 
a  doomed  thing  on  her  breast.  After 
three  months  they  followed  her  up  to  the 
burying-ground,  the  murmuring  of  its 
cedars  never  again  to  be  wholly  out  of 
their  ears.  Away  from  the  grave  Davie 
gave  an  exceedingly  bitter  cry — "  She's 
little  to  leave !"  But  Elizabeth's  tears  fell 
back  in  her  heart  unshed.  She  waved  her 
handkerchief  to  Melindy  Ethel.  "But 
she's  brave  like  her  pa,"  she  said.  And 
Davie  stiffened. 

Memories  of  these  and  other  days, 
mingled  with  forebodings  for  the  part 
ing,  were  so  heavy  upon  him  that  he 
could  get  no  farther  in  the  night's 
devotions  than  the  reading  of  the  Bi 
ble  chapter. 

"I  can't  pray  to-night,  'Lisbeth,"  he 
said. 

Propped  with  pillows  for  the  last  rest 
before  her  journey,  she  was  still  faith 
fully  brave.  "Mebbe  the  Lord  '11  jest 
take  care  o'  me,  anyway,  bein'  as  I've 
tried  to  do  his  ways."  The  old  man  did 
not  know  how  wistful  was  her  speech. 

In  the  morning  she  was  early  dressed 
in  her  decent  black.  To  those  who  came 
for  the  leave-taking  she  bade  good-by 


144  Harper's  Novelettes 

with  gentle  courtesy.  Kerrenhappuch 
Green  lent  his  buggy  because  of  its  com 
fortable  seat,  but  Davie  drove  her  care 
fully  over  the  six  miles  to  the  station. 
No  shriek  of  an  engine's  whistle  dis 
turbed  the  quiet  of  Turkey  Ridge ;  to  go 
into  wider  ways  one  must  needs  start 
from  the  nearest  town.  Once  she  looked 
back  at  the  house,  set  like  an  ancient 
brown  bird's  nest  on  the  narrow  fields. 

The  yellow-bodied  stage,  going  every 
other  day  across  the  country,  brought  the 
minister  the  letter  from  his  niece  with 
the  happy  tidings  of  Elizabeth's  safe  ar 
rival,  under  her  guidance,  at  the  city 
hospital.  The  stage-driver  viewed  the 
missive  with  professional  interest  as  he 
delivered  it.  The  majority  of  his  pas 
sengers  paid  him  monotonously  in  butter 
or  eggs  for  his  services,  his  trips  were 
tedious,  and  his  ideals  were  limited.  To 
read  and  digest  all  postals  and  to  con 
jecture  at  the  contents  of  all  envelopes 
were  his  reward  for  handing  out  the  mail 
at  the  turning  of  the  lanes.  The  minis 
ter  jogged  down  instantly  to  Davie's  in 
his  sulky,  slapping  the  lines  vigorously, 
if  ineffectually,  over  the  back  of  his 
brown  mare,  which  understood,  with  a 
truly  feminine  insight,  his  perplexity 
before  her  character.  Davie  dropped  his 


Elizabeth  and  Davie  145 

hoe  and  ran  stumbling  to  meet  him.  He 
read  the  pages  in  a  tremble.  There  was 
something  for  him  from  Elizabeth  at  the 
bottom  of  the  last  one.  "  Dear  Davie," 
it  ran,  "  are  you  well  an'  lookin'  jest  the 
same?  Don't  get  lonesome  for  me.  I 
ain't  missin'  you  a  mite." 

During  the  period  that  she  was  resting 
for  the  operation  Mary  wrote  daily,  and 
every  time  the  letter  came  the  minister 
jogged  down  to  the  farmhouse,  for  the 
words  were  really  from  the  old  wife  to 
Davie.  Very  cheerful  words  they  were 
for  the  most  part.  "  If  Davie's  askin' 
how  the  streets  look,  tell  him  I  can't  jest 
tell,  for  I  come  in  the  night,  but  the 
noise  is  amazin'."  "  Tell  Davie  I  can  see 
a  church  tower  from  the  window,  an'  it's 
higher  V  we  ever  dreamt  of  its  bein', 
an'  sweeter."  "  Tell  Davie  to  lay  listen- 
in'  to  feet  goin'  up  and  down  on  stones  is 
grand."  "Tell  Davie  I  hev  seen  the 
surgeon  an'  that  I  never  thought  a  great 
man  'd  be  so  kind.  I  was  all  in  a  flutter 
over  him,  but  when  he'd  come  V  had 
Been  me,  whatever'd  I  do  but  tell  him 
'bout  him  'n'  Melindy  Ethel,  an'  the 
meeting-house,  an'  how  the  road  runs  by 
in  front  o'  the  farm.  An'  he  said  he 
knew,  an'  not  to  mind — as  ma  ust  to. 
Ain't  it  strange  'bout  his  knowin'?" 


146  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  letters  to  Elizabeth  were  a  tre 
mendous  labor,  for  Davie  was  no  speller, 
and  always  bashful  in  the  presence  of 
ink.  He  had  only  little  happenings  for 
his  pen — he  wrote  with  his  tongue  form 
ing  the  painful  syllables  about  his  mouth. 
But  to  her  they  were  infinite  things — 
the  May  rose  was  blossomed  in  the  gar 
den,  and  a  pair  of  robins  were  nesting  on 
a  ledge  of  the  loom  on  finding  the  room 
so  still;  the  speckled  hen  scratched  up 
the  pease,  and  the  black  cow's  calf  was 
lamed;  the  house  dog  pined  for  her  and 
whimpered  at  the  doors,  letting  the  cats 
lick  the  edges  of  his  dish;  the  neighbors 
had  sent  donations  of  a  loaf  of  rye  bread, 
a  pitcher  of  broth,  and  the  half  of  a  new 
pressed  cheese;  Kerrenhappuch  Green  sat 
with  him  in  the  evenings,  and  he,  Davie, 
was  not  getting  lonesome  nor  missing 
her  at  all.  But  the  one  blotted  "  'Lis- 
beth,  'Lisbeth,"  told  the  true  tale  of  the 
empty  house. 

When  no  letter  came  from  Mary  he 
toiled,  white  as  lint,  in  his  potato-field. 
There  followed  two  days  of  sick  sus 
pense;  then  the  minister  waved  to  him 
at  the  gray  fence-rails.  So  greatly  did 
he  dread  to  hear  the  news  he  longed  to 
know,  he  could  not  stir  from  the  spot 
where  he  stood,  but  waited,  a  strained, 


Elizabeth  and  Davie  147 

pathetic  figure,  for  him  to  make  his  way 
across  the  even  furrows.  On  the  father 
ly,  near-sighted  countenance,  as  he  drew 
nearer,  was  to  be  seen  such  a  shining 
brightness  that  straightway  Davie  knew 
that  she  whom  he  loved  had  issued  from 
her  trial.  The  two  men,  alike  weather- 
beaten  and  seamed  by  a  humble  work — 
the  shepherd  no  less  than  the  sheep  of  his 
flock  anxiously  tilling  a  rocky  farm, — had 
the  reticence  which  is  learned  in  hill 
solitudes,  but  in  the  "Thank  God, 
Davie,"  and  the  breaking  "  Yes,  sir," 
much  was  spoken. 

Now  Davie  slackened  his  toil  and 
opened  all  the  windows  of  the  house  to 
freshen  the  low-ceilinged  rooms  for 
Elizabeth's  returning.  Every  morning  he 
picked  bunches  of  spring  flowers  and  ar 
ranged  them  in  stiff  bouquets  on  the 
tables  and  old  bureaus.  He  took  out  his 
Sunday  suit  from  the  closet  and  re- 
brushed  it  carefully  and  laid  it  with  a 
clean  collar  and  his  musty  tie.  He  be 
gan  to  carry  himself  all  at  once  with 
something  of  an  air,  and  he  developed  a 
reckless  and  unnatural  enthusiasm  about 
the  weather;  for  to  be  darkly  critical  of 
the  season  after  the  thaw  was  a  local 
point  of  masculine  etiquette  which 
hitherto  he  had  scrupulously  observed. 


148  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  spring  had  always  been  in  his  judg 
ment,  sympathetically  received,  "  too 
terrible  warm,"  or  "  pointin'  right  to  a 
late  frost  that  '11  kill  everything,"  or, 
were  it  not  palpably  a  failure,  "  so  durn- 
ed  nice  now  that  the  summer  '11  be 
mean."  But  with  the  good  news  coming 
from  the  hospital  he  was  ready  to  declare 
in  response  to  friendly  greetings:  "It's 
the  beatin'est  time  I  ever  come  'cross. 
Dun'no'  when  I  hev  heerd  so  many  blue 
birds  or  sech  chirky  ones.  An'  the  sky's 
wonderful  an'  the  ground's  jest  right. 
It's  goin'  to  be  a  dreadful  good  year 
for  farmin'." 

There  was  in  his  mind  no  premonition 
of  trouble  on  his  receiving  from  the  lum 
bering  stage  an  envelope  directed  to  him 
in  Elizabeth's  own  hand.  It  was  only 
that  she  was  getting  able  to  write  to 
him  herself.  He  took  it  unopened  up  to 
the  bench  by  the  May  rose  to  read  its  con 
tents  at  his  leisure  away  from  the  stage- 
driver's  curious  gaze.  "  Dear  Davie,"  the 
letter  said,  "  the  city  streets  is  so  weary- 
in'  an'  I'm  comin'  home.  If  I  ain't  so 
well  as  we  hoped,  don't  mind.  'Tain't 
like  I  was  young  to  leave.  Mary's  comin' 
with  me,  for  she's  long  been  wantin'  to 
visit  the  Kidge.  Could  you  meet  me 
with  your  wagon,  Davie  ?" 


Elizabeth  and  Davie  149 

She  could  not  tell,  what  she  did  not 
know,  that  the  money  for  Mary's  journey 
had  been  sent  to  her  by  the  minister  for 
his  old  friend's  needs. 

The  afternoon  was  very  soft  and  fair 
when  Davie  met  the  train  incoming  to 
town  from  the  city.  The  farms  on 
Turkey  Ridge  were  illumined  with  grow 
ing  things  like  the  faint,  precious  pages 
of  a  missal.  Doves  fluttered  on  the  lowly 
roofs.  Everywhere  was  the  calling  of 
birds  and  the  smell  of  broken  earth. 
The  minister  and  Mary  fell  behind  along 
the  way.  Kerrenhappuch  Green,  caught 
walking  westward  to  the  creek,  his  stale 
pockets  bulged  by  bait,  hid  with  a  simple 
delicacy  in  the  roadside  bushes  from 
Davie's  face.  Only  the  children  hasten 
ing  from  school  nodded  to  him  as  he 
passed  them,  nor  hushed  the  loud  clatter 
of  their  burring  tongues. 

It  was  not  for  young  children  to  be 
stricken  by  that  sight  upon  the  road — 
the  pair  of  patient  horses  drawing  slow 
ly  homeward  in  the  shining  of  the  sun 
a  wagon  fresh  lined  with  straw,  on  which 
lay  a  homely  mother,  smiling  with  old 
lips;  and  above  her,  on  the  seat,  humbly 
bowed  in  his  Sunday  suit,  a  gray-haired 
man  whose  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 


Barney  Doont  Braggart 

BY    PHILIP    VERRILL    MIGHELS 

THE  nine  dusty  citizens  of  Bitter 
Hole,  having  one  and  all  proposed, 
unsuccessfully,  for  the  hand  of 
Miss  Sally  Wooster,  had  about  concluded 
that  Bitter  Water  Valley  was  a  desert, 
after  all,  when  they  finally  thought  to 
turn  their  attention  once  again  to  Barney 
Doon,  the  cook. 

Let  it  here  be  stated,  nevertheless,  there 
was  one  thing  to  prove  that  the  valley 
was  a  desert,  despite  the  presence  of 
Barney,  and  that  was  the  face  of  the 
country  itself.  One-half  of  that  whole 
Nevada  area  was  a  great  white  blister, 
forty  miles  long  and  fifteen  wide,  acrid 
with  alkali,  flat,  barren,  and  harsh  as  a 
sheet  of  zinc.  The  valley's  remaining 
territory  was  covered  with  gray,  dry 
scrub,  four  inches  high,  through  which 
the  dusty  Overland  stage  -  route  was 
crookedly  scratched. 

Bitter  Hole  was  the  station  for  the 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        151 

stage.  In  it  flourished  the  nine  dusty 
citizens,  a  dusty  dog,  and  a  dusty  chicken, 
in  addition  to  Barney  and  the  buxom 
Miss  Sally,  whose  father  was  among  the 
citizens  enumerated.  At  the  end  of  the 
street  was  a  hole,  or  well,  the  waters  of 
which,  being  not  precisely  fatal  to  men 
and  horses,  had  occasioned  the  growth 
of  the  place,  there  being  no  other  water 
for  leagues  along  the  road. 

Here  in  this  land,  even  when  Sally 
had  scorned  them,  each  in  turn,  the  men 
of  the  Hole  were  still  agreed  there  could 
be  no  desolation  where  Barney  Doon  had 
residence.  Purely  and  simply  they  loved 
the  little  cook  for  the  fiery  suddenness  of 
his  temper  and  the  ingenuity  of  the  in 
sults  of  which  he  was  never  guiltless. 
The  sulphurous  little  demon  was,  as  the 
miners  and  teamsters  estimated,  "  only 
two  sizes  bigger  than  a  full-grown  jack- 
rabbit."  What  he  lacked  in  size,  how 
ever,  he  more  than  supplied  in  expres 
sion  of  countenance.  His  eyes  were  cen 
tres  of  incandescence,  while  the  meagre 
supply  of  hair  he  grew  bristled  redly  out 
from  beside  his  ears  like  ill-ordered 
spears.  Indeed,  such  a  red-whiskered, 
bald-headed  little  parcel  of  fireworks  as 
Barney  was  is  rarely  created. 

Calmly  considered,  it  is  hardly  a  mat- 


152  Harper's  Novelettes 

ter  for  marvel  that  Barney  had,  from  time 
to  time,  accommodated  every  individual 
in  the  Hole  with  a  quarrel.  Moreover,  he 
had  challenged  each  to  mortal  combat. 
Indeed,  he  had  never  been  known  to  do 
anything  less.  Barney  was  a  challenger 
first  and  a  cook  incidentally.  But,  an 
cient  and  modern  tradition  through, 
there  never  was  chronicle  of  actual  en 
counter  in  which  the  fierce  little  cook 
cut  figure. 

And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  men 
esteemed  him  perhaps  somewhat  more  for 
the  skill  and  adroitness  with  which  he  in 
variably  squirmed  out  of  impending  en 
gagements,  than  they  did  for  all  the  alac 
rity  and  pyrotechnics  with  which  he  was 
wont  to  surround  himself  with  duelsome 
entanglements.  The  boys  well  knew  that 
if  blood  were  unlet  till  the  bragging,  hot 
little  rogue  of  a  Barney  stained  his  rec 
ord,  they  would  all  forget  the  color  of 
a  wound. 

It  was  not  without  some  elemental  en 
thusiasm  that  the  camp,  one  evening, 
extended  its  welcome  to  a  mule -driver 
newly  mustered  to  their  company.  The 
sobriquet  by  which  the  man  was  duly  in 
troduced  was  Slivers.  He  was  swiftly 
appraised  and  as  quickly  assimilated, 
after  which  there  was  only  one  process 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        153 

required  to  complete  his  initiation, 
namely,  that  of  preparing  his  mind  for  a 
"  racket  "  with  Barney  Doon. 

"Don't  lose  no  time,  but  git  right  in 
at  supper,"  instructed  John  Tuttle,  for 
the  group.  "  Jest  bang  him  with  any  old 
insult  you  can  think  of,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  Barney.  Trot  out  a  plain,  home-made 
slap  at  the  fodder  he's  dishin'  up,  fer  in 
stance.  And  when  he  comes  at  you  with 
a  challenge,  don't  fergit  your  privilege 
of  pickin'  out  the  weapons — savvy?" 

It  chanced  that  the  moment  selected  for 
the  entertainment  was  most  propitious, 
inasmuch  as  Barney  had  that  day  de 
clared  his  devotion  to  Sally  Wooster,  and 
had  duly  desired  her  big  red  hand  for 
his  own,  only  to  hear  a  wild  peal  of 
laughter  in  reply,  and  to  find  himself 
boosted  bodily  out  of  the  window  by  the 
hearty  young  lady  herself.  He  was  not, 
therefore,  exactly  in  a  mood  of  milk 
and  honey. 

It  never  had  failed,  and  it  did  not  fail 
to-night,  that  Barney  should  conceive 
himself  more  than  half  insulted  merely 
by  the  sight  of  a  stranger  appearing  at 
the  board  and  calmly  requiring  the 
wherewithal  to  satisfy  a  mountain  appe 
tite.  Accordingly,  when  the  miners  and. 
teamsters  all  came  filing  in,  dusty,  angu- 


iS4  Harper's  Novelettes 

lar,  raw-looking  of  countenance,  Barney 
instantly  detected  the  presence  of  Slivers 
among  them,  and  his  eyes  "  lit  up  shop  " 
without  delay. 

Slivers,  to  speak  the  truth,  was  easily 
seen.  He  was  framed  like  a  sky-scrap 
ing  building,  with  the  girders  all  plain 
ly  suggested.  Not  without  a  certain 
insolence  of  deliberation,  he  stared  about 
the  room  before  assuming  his  seat,  and 
provoked  himself  to  a  sneer  of  opera- 
bouffe  proportions. 

"  You're  his  meat  already,"  whispered 
one  of  the  men.  "  Set  down." 

Comrade  Slivers  thereupon  proceeded 
to  comport  himself  with  a  studied  indif 
ference  to  the  cook  which  was  duly  gall 
ing.  In  a  grim  silence  that  all  who  knew 
him  comprehended,  Barney  went  about 
the  table  glowering  with  ferocity. 
Edging  closer  and  closer  to  Slivers,  the 
little  man  seemed  itching  in  his  ears  to 
catch  some  careless  word  that  might,  by 
dint  of  inventiveness,  be  construed  as  a 
personal  affront. 

"  I  can  see  you  ain't  got  no  cook  in  the 
camp,"  said  Slivers,  loudly,  to  his  neigh 
bor,  when  Barney  was  directly  behind 
his  chair.  "Has  that  pizened  little  boy 
I  seen  a  while  ago  been  playin'  keep- 
house  with  the  grub?" 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        155 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  grub, 
you  scion  of  the  wild-ass  family?"  de 
manded  Barney,  exploding  like  a  fulmi 
nate. 

Slivers  looked  around  and  scowled. 
"  Git  out,  you  yawping  brat,"  said  he. 
"  You  must  have  been  losin'  hair  for 
years — one  hair  a  day — for  everything 
you  don't  know  about  decent  grub.  Go 
look  at  yer  head,  and  figure  out  your 
ignorance." 

Sensitive  concerning  the  trackless 
Sahara  which  his  pate  presented,  Barney 
clapped  his  hand  upon  it  instantly.  He 
could  scarcely  speak,  for  rage. 

"You— dead  lizard!"  finally  spurted 
from  his  safety-valve.  "You  mongrel 
viper !  Low-bred  ooze,  disowned  and  out 
cast,  I'll  spoil  a  grave  with  your  carcass 
for  this!  You  jelly  of  cowardice,  meet 
me  to-morrow  for  satisfaction,  or  I'll 
swing  you  about  by  the  tongue,  and  hurl 
you  to  pulp  against  the  sty  of  a  pig!" 

Even  Slivers  somewhat  gasped. 

"Meet  you?"  he  retorted,  arising,  to 
tower  above  his  foeman  like  a  mast. 
"Iron  me,  Johnny! — if  I  can  crawl  in 
the  hole  to  find  you  where  you're  hidin' 
I'll  make  you  wish  for  hair  a  mile  long, 
to  stand  on  your  head  in  your  pit 
iful  scare!" 


156  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Oh,  fie!  Oh,  bah!"  said  the  cook, 
scanning  the  teamster's  length  with  ill- 
concealed  awe.  "Buzzard,  you  toy  with 
languages.  To-morrow  I  shall  throw 
tomato -cans  in  scorn  to  build  your 
monument." 

"All  right,"  answered  Slivers.  "To 
morrow  suits  me,  and  we'll  fight  it  out 
bareback  on  buckin'  broncos,  out  in  the 
small  corral,  each  feller  armed  with  a 
stockin'  full  of  rocks  for  a  weapon." 

Barney  stared  for  a  moment  in  con 
sternation  at  the  man  before  him.  He 
had  previously  grown  accustomed  to  the 
horrors  suggested  by  pistols,  knives,  red- 
hot  branding-irons,  and  even  pitchforks, 
but  rocks  in  a  stocking  —  that  smacked 
of  barbarism.  Moreover,  to  mount  on  the 
back  of  a  bronco,  wild  or  tame  —  the 
very  meditation  made  the  walls  drop  out 
of  his  stomach.  However,  he  smiled. 

"  Child's  play !"  he  answered,  with  fine 
disgust.  "You  warty  infant!  No  mat 
ter,  an  odious  child  would  become  a  more 
detestable  reptile!  Till  to-morrow,  don't 
speak  to  me — don't  speak  to  me!  Or  I 
shall  cheat  myself  of  the  morning's 
pastime."  And  with  that  he  strode 
haughtily  away. 

"Howlin'  coyotes!"  said  Slivers,  when 
he  met  the  gaze  of  a  dozen  pair  of  gleam- 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        157 

ing  eyes.  "  Take  him  dose  for  dose  he's 
worse  than  pizen !  By  gar !  just  see  if  he 
burned  any  holes  in  my  shirt." 

Nearly  all  night  long,  however,  little 
Barney  lay  awake,  wildly  fashioning  ex 
cuses  to  avoid  that  horrid  duel  in  the 
morning.  He  had  always  escaped  by  a 
margin  so  narrow  that  no  precedent  of 
the  past  gave  assurance  of  luck  for  the 
future.  He  was  mortally  afraid  that  at 
last  he  had  challenged  such  a  monster  of 
brute  courage,  malignity,  and  strength 
that  nothing  terrestrial  could  avert  his 
untimely  demise. 

Then  in  the  morning  the  first  sight 
that  met  his  troubled  gaze  was  that  of 
Slivers  rounding  up  a  pair  of  unbroken 
ponies,  as  wild  as  meteors,  in  the  field  of 
honor,  hard  by  the  camp.  Every  cell  in 
Barney's  structure  was  in  a  panic.  How 
he  managed  to  walk  to  the  water-bench 
to  wash  was  more  than  he  knew.  After 
that  there  was  no  retreat.  The  citizens 
of  Bitter  Hole  surrounded  him,  according 
to  preconcerted  arrangement,  and  began 
to  coach  him  for  his  fight. 

"Barney,  you'd  better  have  a  jolt  of 
whiskey  in  yer  vitals,"  suggested  one. 
"  Slivers  is  a  regular  expert  with  a  stock- 
in'  of  rocks." 

"If  I  was  you,  Barney,"  said  Tuttle, 

IX 


158  Harper's  Novelettes 

"I'd  leave  my  bronco  throw  me  right 
at  him.  Then  I'd  turn  in  the  air  and 
soak  my  heels  into  Slivers's  grub-basket 
and  knock  him  into  pieces  small  enough 
to  smoke  in  a  cigarette." 

"Barney,"  counselled  another,  "you 
take  my  advice  and  fight  standin'  up  on 
your  hoss,  so  you  can  jump  over  onto 
Slivers's  bronco  and  cram  your  stock- 
in'  of  rocks  down  that  there  mule-driver's 
neck  and  choke  him  clean  to  death." 

They  were  "herding"  the  speechlesa 
Barney  toward  the  corral,  in  which  the 
two  vicious  ponies  had  now  been  confined. 
Slivers  himself  came  forward. 

"Leave  me  see  how  much  the  lit 
tle  scarecrow  has  shrunk  in  the  night," 
said  he. 

Barney's  wrath  was  kindled  by  this. 
He  opened  his  mouth  to  deliver  a  broad 
side  of  verbal  grape  and  canister,  when 
he  was  suddenly  interrupted. 

A  shot  and  a  yell,  from  down  the  road, 
startled  every  man  in  camp.  Two,  three, 
five  more  shots  barked  in  swift  succes 
sion.  Miss  Sally  Wooster  herself  was 
drawn  from  the  house  by  the  fusillade. 

With  Comanche-like  whoops,  a  horse 
man  came  dashing  madly  toward  the 
men,  brandishing  two  huge  revolvers  as 
he  rode. 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        159 

"  Skete,  and  drunk  in  the  morning," 
said  Tuttle. 

A  moment  later  the  rider  scattered  the 
population  as  he  rode  his  weltering  pony 
through  the  group. 

"You  lubbers,  celebrate!"  he  yelled, 
discharging  a  weapon  three  times  in  a 
second.  "  There's  been  a  baby  born  at 
Red  Shirt  Canyon!  We  git  in  the  cen 
sus!  We  git  on  the  map!  Big  Matt 
Sullivan's  wife  has  got  a  little  boy!" 

"A  boy!"  said  Sally  Wooster.  "Oh 
my!" 

"Is  that  all?"  inquired  John  Tuttle, 
on  behalf  of  his  somewhat  indignant 
townsmen.  "  Red  Shirt's  thirty  -  seven 
miles  away.  We've  got  something  more 
exciting  than  that  right  here  in  camp." 

"  Red  Shirt's  in  this  same  county,"  pro 
tested  the  horseman,  a  trifle  crestfallen. 
"  I  thought  you  fellers  was  patriotic." 

Barney  Doon  threw  out  his  chest  and 
swaggered  forward. 

"  Patriotic  ?"  he  echoed.  "  Doggone  us, 
we're  the  biggest  patriots  on  the  coast! 
No  man  is  a  gentleman  who  wouldn't  be 
a  gentleman  on  such  an  occasion  as  this. 
Skete,  you've  saved  the  life  of  yonder 
braggart,"  and  he  pointed  to  Slivers.  "  I 
couldn't  be  a  gentleman  and  slay  him 
when  a  child's  been  born  in  this  here 


160  Harper's  Novelettes 

county.  Slivers,  you  can  go  your  way, 
without  alarm." 

"What!"  demanded  Tuttle.  "No 
fight?  All  on  account  of  a  baby?" 

"If  I  ever!"  added  Sally  Wooster. 

A  third  disgusted  person  queried, 
"What's  a  baby  got  to  do  with  a  duel, 
and  the  kid  near  forty  miles  away?" 

To  this  one  Barney  turned  with  pity 
ing  scorn.  "You  don't  know  how  easy 
it  is  to  disturb  a  new-born  baby,"  said  he. 
"There  ain't  a  man  but  me  in  camp 
knows  how  to  behave  himself  in  a  holy 
moment  like  this  here,  and  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  kill  no  man  when  a  sacred  thing 
like  that  has  went  and  happened." 

"  Well,  durn  his  slippery  hide !"  grum 
bled  Tuttle.  "  He's  gittin'  too  smart !" 

The  men  were  all  grinning,  includ 
ing  Slivers. 

"  I  reckon  Barney  knows  as  much 
about  a  baby  as  a  hop-toad  knows  about 
arithmetic,"  said  Wooster,  winking  pro 
digiously.  "He's  got  us  all  square  beat 
on  kids."  ' 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  a 
lanky  individual  who  had  sobered  amaz 
ingly  at  the  news  from  Ked  Shirt  Can- 
yoii.  "  I've  saw  a  kid  or  two  myself." 

"That  so,  Moody?"  said  Slivers! 
"  Well,  say,  maybe  we  could  work  up  a  bet 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        161 

between  you  and  Barney,  to  see  which 
knows  the  most  about  a  youngster." 

Barney  broke  in  abruptly.  "I'll  bet  a 
million  dollars  I  know  more  about  chil 
dren  than  all  you  cusses  put  together! 
There  ain't  a  one  of  you  knows  how  many 
teeth  a  baby's  got  when  he's  born." 

The  challenge  produced  a  solemn  still 
ness. 

"W-e-1-1,  I  know  they  don't  git  their 
eyes  open  for  a  week,"  asserted  Moody. 

"  You're  clear  off,  first  crack,"  retort 
ed  Barney.  "It's  nine  days,  instead  of 
a  week." 

Again  the  men  were  awed  to  silence. 

"Yes,  that's  right — Barney's  correct," 
presently  admitted  citizen  Wooster. 

"  You  old  ninnies !"  said  his  daugh 
ter  Sally,  and  she  turned  away  to  go  to 
the  house. 

"  Well,  anyway,"  said  Slivers,  after  a 
brisk  bit  of  widespread  conversation  with 
Tuttle,  "  we've  got  a  scheme.  Barney 
wants  to  match  himself  against  the  whole 
shebang  in  knowin'  about  a  kid,  and 
we're  goin'  to  fetch  a  young  un  to  the 
Hole  and  leave  him  prove  his  claim." 

"Not  Sullivan's?"  gasped  Barney, 
suddenly  overwhelmed  at  the  prospect  of 
proving  his  erudition  on  an  infant  so 
tender,  with  a  father  so  brawny. 


1 62  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Never  mind  whose,"  replied  the 
teamster.  "  You  sit  quiet  and  look 
pretty,  and  we'll  provide  the  kid." 

This  they  did.  The  following  morn 
ing,  at  daylight,  Tuttle  and  Slivers  re 
appeared  at  camp,  from  a  pilgrimage, 
and  the  mule-driver  held  in  his  arms  a 
little  red  Indian  papoose,  as  fat,  dimpled, 
and  pretty  as  a  cherub,  and  as  frightened 
as  a  captive  baby  rabbit. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  the  man,  placing  his 
charge  on  the  floor,  in  the  midst  of  a 
circle  of  wondering  citizens,  "  there's 
your  kid.  Never  mind  where  we  got  him 
— there  he  is.  Barney  takes  charge  of 
him  every  other  day,  and  the  rest  of  us 
by  turns  in  between — all  that  cares  to 
enter  the  race." 

The  news  having  spread,  Miss  Sally 
Wooster  was  among  the  astonished  spec 
tators  who  beheld  the  tiny,  half-naked, 
frightened  little  chieftain-to-be,  gazing 
timidly  about  him  as  he  sat  on  the  planks, 
gripping  his  own  little  shirt  as  his  one 
and  only  acquaintance. 

"Lauk!"  she  said,  and  laughing  im 
moderately,  sped  for  the  door. 

"  Sally,  you  ain't  to  help  neither 
Barney  nor  us !"  called  Tuttle. 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  she  answered.  "  It 
ain't  no  pie  of  mine." 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        163 

The  men  continued  to  look  at  their 
"young  un"  in  no  small  quandary  of 
helplessness. 

"  He's  a  pretty  little  cuss,"  said  one  of 
the  miners,  after  a  moment.  "  I  wouldn't 
guess  him  for  more  than  a  yearlin'." 

Moody  coughed  nervously.  "  One  of 
the  first  things  to  do  for  a  child,"  he  ven 
tured,  "  is  to  git  a  thimble  to  rub  on 
his  teeth." 

"That's  right,"  said  a  friend.  "My 
mother  used  to  do  that  regular." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  putting 
pants  on  him  fairly  early  in  the  fight?" 
inquired  the  next  man  of  wisdom. 

"First  thing  my  mother  always  done 
for  us  was  to  make  us  a  bib,"  drawled  one 
fidgety  fellow,  tentatively. 

"  He'd  orter  be  told  never  to  drink,  ner 
chew,  ner  smoke,  ner  swear,  ner  gamble, 
'fore  it  gits  too  late,"  added  a  miner  who 
carefully  eschewed  all  and  sundry  of 
these  virtues. 

"Stub-tailed  idiots!"  said  Barney,  in 
huge  disgust. 

All  eyes  f  ocussed  on  the  fiery  little  cook. 

"  Well,  then,"  demanded  Tuttle,  "  what 
is  the  first  thing  to  do  for  a  little  kid 
like  him?" 

"  The  first  thing  ?"  answered  Barney. 
"  The  first  thing  is—  Do  you  think  I'm 


164  Harper's  Novelettes 

going  to  tell  you  lop-eared  galoots  all  I 
know  about  a  baby?  What  I  want  to 
know  is  if  he's  had  a  bite  to  eat?" 

"What  did  you  think  we'd  feed  him?" 
asked  Slivers.  "Do  we  look  like  his 
mother?" 

"  Git  away,  you  venomous  scum,  and 
let  me  have  him!"  demanded  Barney. 

"  Hold  on,"  interrupted  Tuttle.  "  The 
first  day  he  goes  to  the  feller  he  picks  out 
himself,  only  you  come  last,  bein'  the 
challenger.  We'll  arrange  things  alpha 
betical.  Adams,  you  git  first  shot,  to 
find  out  if  you're  popular  with  the  lit 
tle  skeesicks." 

Adams  turned  redder  than  usual, 
which  is  saying  much. 

"Ah — I  don't  know  nuthin'  about 
kids,"  he  confessed.  "  Catherwood — see 
what  he  can  do." 

Catherwood  also  proved  to  be  modest. 
After  him  Farnham  and  Lane  waived 
their  alphabetical  privilege. 

Moody,  as  nervous  as  a  girl,  approached 
the  dumb  little  man  on  the  floor,  and 
twisting  the  corner  of  his  coat,  inquired 
in  a  trembling  voice,  "  Does  Bunny  love 
old  Goo-goo?" 

The  child  looked  up  with  a  frightened 
little  query  in  his  eyes. 

"I'd  hate  to  scare  him,"  Moody  add- 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        165 

ed.  "I  don't  mind  seem'  how  he  takes 
to  Barney." 

"Yes,  give  Barney  a  show,"  said 
Wooster. 

Something  had  been  happening  to  the 
cook.  The  tenseness  had  gone  from  his 
usually  wiry  little  body;  his  eyes  were 
milder;  a  curve  was  softening  his  mouth. 
Kneeling  before  the  child,  he  held  forth 
his  arms. 

"Baby  want  to  go  by-by?"  he  said, 
and  tenderly  lifting  the  little  man,  he 
bore  him  away,  while  the  men  looked  on 
in  silence. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  man  who  peeked 
through  the  keyhole  reported  that  Barney 
was  singing  the  youngster  to  sleep.  The 
words  of  the  song  are  not  readily  con 
veyed,  but  they  sounded  like — 

"Allonsum  sum-sum  bill-din, 
Allonsum  sum-sum  bill-din, 
Allonsum  sum-sum  bill-din," 

repeated  times  without  number.  Barney 
called  it  an  Indian  lullaby.  As  sung  it 
was  equally  good  Cherokee,  Chinese,  or 
Kussian,  being  Barney's  clearest  recollec 
tion  and  interpretation  of  a  song  which 
his  mother  once  had  droned. 

On  the  third  day  following,  Slivers, 
Tuttle,  and  others  held  a  council  of  war. 


1 66  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Barney's  goin'  to  clean  up  the  whole 
works  of  us,"  said  the  mule-driver,  "  un 
less  we  can  manage  to  work  some  bet 
ter  combination." 

"What  can  we  do?"  inquired  Tuttle. 
"  The  kid  sure  likes  him  best." 

"  That  wasn't  the  point.  It's  a  game 
of  how  much  we  all  know  about  a  young 
un  as  against  little  Barney.  Now,  Moody, 
on  the  square,  do  you  think  you  know  as 
much  as  him?" 

"He  knows  more  than  you'd  think," 
confessed  Moody.  "  The — the  only  little 
kid  I  ever  had — she  died — ten  months 
old." 

"  Oh." 

"  Well— that  was  hell,  sure." 

Some  of  the  men  puckered  their  lips 
as  if  to  whistle,  but  made  no  sound. 

"  If  only  we  could  paint  Barney's  face 
an  Irish  green,  or  do  something  so's  the 
kid  would  be  scared  to  see  him,  we  might 
win  out  yet,  perhaps,"  resumed  Slivers, 
presently.  "  Got  any  ideas  ?" 

"I  don't  think  Barney  could  scare 
him  if  he  tried,"  answered  Wooster. 
"Anyhow  the  pore  little  scamp  ain't 
cried  since  he  come." 

"He  ain't  laughed  any,  either,"  add 
ed  Moody. 

There  was  neither  a  cry  nor  a  smile 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        167 

that  day,  though  Barney  yearned  to  hear 
either  one  of  these  baby  sounds.  The 
little  brown  captive  clung  as  always  to  his 
tiny  shirt,  and  watched  Barney's  face 
with  big,  brown,  questioning  eyes.  The 
cook  had  forgotten  his  boast.  To  hold 
the  wee  bit  of  babyhood  against  his  heart, 
to  coax  him  to  eat,  to  yearn  over  him, 
love  him,  fondle  him — these  were  his 
passions.  A  fierce  parental  jealousy  grew 
in  Barney's  nature. 

But  the  hour  arrived  when  jealousy 
changed  to  a  deeper  emotion — to  worry. 
All  Barney  actually  knew  of  a  child  came 
through  the  intuitions  of  a  natural 
father's  heart,  but  little  as  this  amounted 
to,  Barney  was  aware  that  a  tiny  scamp 
like  this  should  eat  and  sleep  and  creep 
about  and  crow.  And  the  little  brown 
"  Bunny  "  had  done  not  one  of  the  pretty 
baby  tricks. 

The  fiery  little  cook's  new  concern  was 
at  first  concealed.  With  growing  reluc 
tance  every  time,  he  resigned  the  little 
man  to  Moody's  care  as  the  "  contest "  re 
quired.  One  night,  however,  when  the 
dumb,  sad  bit  of  an  Indian  was  with 
Moody,  the  man  was  aroused  from  hia 
dreams  by  some  one's  presence.  It  was 
Barney,  too  worried  to  sleep,  surrepti 
tiously  come  to  the  tiny  captive's  fruit- 


1 68  Harper's  Novelettes 

box  cradle,  and  gently  urging  the 
bronze  man  to  eat  of  some  gruel  prepared 
at  that  silent  hour  of  the  darkness.  He 
was  willing  that  Moody  should  have  the 
credit  of  taking  good  care  of  the  mother 
less  baby,  if  only  the  child  could  be  made 
a  little  more  happy.  Thereafter,  by  night 
and  day,  the  cook  was  hovering  about 
the  uncomplaining  little  chieftain;  and 
Moody  understood. 

By  some  of  the  mystic  workings  of 
nature,  Barney's  love  and  worry  extended 
to  Sally.  Hiding  her  feelings  from  all 
the  men,  even  from  Barney  himself,  she 
could  not  quell  the  upgush  of  emotion  in 
her  bosom,  as  she  snatched  the  little  In 
dian  once,  in  secret,  to  her  heart.  With 
out  the  courage,  as  yet,  to  hear  the  men 
ridicule  her  weakness,  she  nevertheless 
contrived  to  place  a  hundred  little  com 
forting  things  in  Barney's  path,  as  he 
went  his  rounds  of  mothering  his  sad 
little  wild  thing  from  the  hills.  Her 
heart  began  to  ache,  as  it  swelled  to  take 
in  the  child  and  Barney  Doon. 

The  men  had  lost  all  spirit  of  fun  in 
the  contest,  even  to  Slivers,  who  strove, 
however,  to  see  it  through  in  a  bluff, 
rough-hearted  way. 

Unexpectedly  all  of  it  came  to  a  crisis. 
It  was  early  in  the  morning.  After  a 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        169 

sleepless  night  Barney  had  gone  in  des 
perate  parent-care  to  receive  his  found 
ling  back  from  Moody.  In  one  keen 
glance  he  had  finally  perceived  what  all 
their  folly  was  leading  to,  at  last. 

With  the  dumb  little  chap  on  his  arm 
he  hastened  to  the  dining-shed,  where 
all  the  men,  save  Tuttle,  were  await 
ing  breakfast. 

"  You  brutes  had  no  right  to  steal  this 
child !"  he  cried  out,  passionately.  "  He's 
starving!  He's  pining  away!  Look  at 
his  thin  little  legs!  Look  at  his  poor 
little  eyes — getting  hollow!"  Tears  were 
streaming  from  his  own  tired  eyes  as  he 
spoke.  "  Slivers,  you  did  this !"  he 
charged,  angrily.  "You  tell  me  where 
you  got  him,  or  I'll  shoot  you  down  like 
a  dog !"  He  had  hastened  up  to  the  team 
ster,  against  whose  very  breast  he  thrust  a 
pistol  a  foot  in  length. 

"  By  God !  he'd  do  it !"  said  Slivers,  un 
moved  by  the  push  of  the  loaded  weapon. 
"Uncock  it,  Barney.  You'd  ought  to 
know  I  wouldn't  harm  the  kid,  any 
quicker  than  you.  I'd  do  as  much  as  any 
man  if  we  had  to  save  his  life." 

"He  may  not  live  through  the  day!" 
cried  Barney.  "  I'm  going  to  take  him 
home — back  to  his  mother!  And  if  you 
don't  tell  me  where  she  is — " 


1 70  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Hold  on,  now;  I  call,"  interrupted 
Slivers.  "  We'll  see  if  you've  got  any 
sand.  The  Injun  camp  is  over  across  the 
desert,  in  Thimbleberry  Cove.  .  .  .  Do 
you  reckon  you've  got  the  nerve  to  pack 
him  across?" 

A  peculiar  silence  followed  this  an 
nouncement.  Barney  stood  like  an  ani 
mal  at  bay.  His  face  became  deathly 
white.  He  fully  comprehended  the  aw- 
fulness  of  that  great  white  dead  -  land 
just  outside. 

Wooster  broke  the  silence.  "  It  looks 
as  if  the  wind  is  going  to  blow  harder  to 
day,"  he  said.  "It's  stirring  up  the 
desert  some  already.  A  man  could  never 
get  two  miles  out  from  here,  unless  the 
breeze  goes  down." 

Barney,  with  a  crazed,  wild  look  on  his 
face,  hastened  away  to  the  kitchen. 

"  I'm  glad  he  didn't  take  you  up  on 
that,"  said  Moody,  gazing  forth  from  a 
window.  "  Get  on  to  the  way  the  whirl 
winds  are  kickin'  up  the  smoke  already." 

"  I  reckon  it  won't  blow  no  worse  than 
yesterday,"  replied  Slivers.  "  But  I 
knowed  he  wouldn't  tackle  it  anyhow. 
He'll  be  back  here  in  a  minute,  to  squirm 
out  of  the  game." 

They  drummed  on  the  table  for  fifteen 
minutes,  as  they  waited.  A  brisk  wind 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        171 

was  blowing;  the  desert  began  to  deliver 
up  its  cohorts  of  dust-clouds,  where  pow 
dered  alkali  billowed  and  eddied  and 
swept  across  the  valley  in  ever-increasing 
Tolumes. 

"  Peek  in  the  kitchen  and  see  what 
Barney's  up  to  now,"  prompted  Slivers, 
nudging  Adams  as  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  he'll  be  back  directly,"  said 
Adams. 

"  Here's  somebody  comin'  now,"  added 
Catherwood,  presently.  "  Maybe  it's — " 

"  Sally,"  muttered  Slivers,  who  medi 
tated  proposing  for  the  hand  of  the 
buxom  Miss  Wooster. 

She  came  toward  them  almost  fiercely. 
Her  face  was  white.  She  too  had  de 
tected  the  change  come  upon  the  tiny 
Indian  captive.  All  night  she  had  ac 
cused  herself  of  neglect  and  heartlessness. 

"Where's  Barney?  Where's  the 
baby?"  she  demanded. 

"  Barney's  maybe  striking  off  for 
Thimbleberry  Cove,"  answered  Slivers, 
smilingly.  "  He  was  running  a  bluff  on 
taking  the  kid  to  its  mother." 

"But  Tuttle  told  me  the  mother's  up 
at  Red  Shirt  Canyon,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Slivers,  uneasily. 
"We— told  him  about  the  Cove  to  test 
his  sand." 


172  Harper's  Novelettes 

Sally  gazed  at  him  wildly.  "  Then— it 
must  have  been  a  man — Barney! — I  saw 
— on  the  desert!"  she  cried,  disjointedly. 
"They'll  die!  Oh  no,  he  wouldn't—" 
She  ran  outside  to  scan  the  fearful  ex 
panse  of  alkali,  with  its  gathering  bliz 
zard  of  dust. 

The  men,  suddenly  grown  nervous,  fol 
lowed  her  out  of  the  house.  Apparently 
there  was  nothing,  far  or  wide,  on  the 
desert,  save  the  sweeping  clouds  of  white, 
like  drifting  snow. 

"My  God!  he  wouldn't  tackle  that!" 
said  Slivers. 

"I  hear  some  one  out  in  the  kitchen 
now,"  said  Tate.  "  It  must  be  him." 

Sally  ran  to  see.  It  was  only  the  dog. 
She  darted  forth  once  more. 

"Not  there!"  she  said.  "But  surely 
Barney  wouldn't—  There !  There !" 

Her  cry  rang  out  so  shrilly  that  even 
Slivers  started.  She  was  pointing  stiffly. 
The  men  all  stared  at  the  storm  of  dust. 
For  one  brief  second  the  swirling  clouds 
were  reft,  revealing,  far  out  eastward, 
in  the  dead-land  of  white,  a  small  dark 
object — the  form  of  a  man. 

One  poignant  sob  was  the  only  sound 
that  Sally  made,  as  she  ran  toward 
the  stable. 

"Good  Lord!  it's  him!"  said  Adams. 


Barney  Doon,  Braggart        173 

"  Was  he  heading  back  this  way  ?" 

"I  think  he  was,"  answered  Gather- 
wood. 

"  He  couldn't— do  anything— else," 
stammered  Slivers. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke. 

"I  reckon  I'll  just  mosey  over  to 
the  desert,"  drawled  the  fidgety  man. 
"I'd  hate  to  have  anything  go  wrong 
with  Barney." 

"Guess  I'll  go  along  myself,"  said 
Adams. 

"  Boys !"  said  Slivers,  hoarsely,  "  I'm 
going  to  saddle  up  and  git  him  back! 
I  didn't  mean  no  harm  when  I  told  him 
wrong.  I  didn't  think  he'd  go.  I'd  ride 
through  hell  for  Barney — or  the  little 
Injun,  either.  You  fellers  know  I  didn't 
mean  no  harm." 

He  started  at  once  to  get  his  horse. 
Before  he  had  covered  half  the  distance 
to  the  stable,  Sally  suddenly  rode  forth, 
bareback,  on  a  buckskin  pony,  and  head 
ing  for  the  desert,  spurred  her  bronco 
to  a  gallop,  crying  to  him  wildly  as 
she  went. 

"Sally!— Sally— I'll  go!"  yelled  Sliv 
ers. 

She  seemed  not  to  hear,  but  ran  her 
pony  out. upon  the  white  expanse,  where 
the  wreathing  dust  seemed  to  swallow 


174  Harper's  Novelettes 

both  herself  and  the  animal  immediately. 

Her  horse,  fleeing  swiftly  before  the 
wind,  carried  Sally  a  mile  or  two  out 
from  the  camp  before  she  reined  him  in. 
Believing  Barney  could  have  come  no 
farther  than  this,  she  began  to  search 
and  to  call. 

At  every  turn  of  her  head  her  eyes 
were  blinded  by  the  acrid  dust.  The 
stuff  choked  her  breathing;  already 
her  throat  was  dry.  Dust  and  powder 
and  snow  -  of  -  alkali  came  from  every 
where.  It  was  blowing  up  her  sleeves. 
It  filtered  into  and  through  her  clothing. 
Her  ears  were  quickly  coated;  her  hair 
was  heavy. 

She  turned  her  head  from  side  to  side 
for  a  breath.  The  air  was  thicker  than 
smoke  with  dust  as  heavy  as  flour. 

"Barney!"  she  called,  from  time  to 
time,  but  the  alkali  coated  her  tongue. 
On  either  side  she  could  see  for  a  distance 
of  twenty  feet,  or  less.  It  seemed  far  less, 
in  all  that  terrible  drift  of  white. 

She  rode  across  the  wind,  doggedly, 
crying  Barney's  name.  A  nameless  hope 
lessness  began  to  grow  upon  her.  Now 
this  way,  now  that,  she  urged  her  horse. 
How  far  could  Barney  hear  her  calling? 
How  far  could  he  wander?  How  far 
would  she  ride?  There  were  forty  miles 


Barney  Doont  Braggart        175 

in  length  and  fifteen  in  width  of  this 
reek  of  wind-driven  alkali.  God  keep 
them  if  ever  they  got  more  than  two 
miles  away  from  the  Hole ! 

It  was  aimless  riding,  presently,  but 
she  still  persisted.  A  sickening  convic 
tion  that  Barney  and  the  little  captive 
would  both  be  dead  before  she  could  find 
them  made  her  desperation  unendurable. 
With  eyes  starting  hotly,  with  every 
breath  seeming  like  a  struggle  for  ex 
istence,  in  the  dust,  she  galloped,  call 
ing,  calling,  till  at  last  she  could  call 
no  more. 

Dazed,  she  halted  her  horse  at  last,  and 
sat  staring  blindly  at  nothing.  The 
pony  turned  about,  unheeded,  and  began 
to  fight  his  way  against  the  storm,  his 
head  down  between  his  legs. 

Sally's  head  also  came  down,  by  in 
stinct  more  than  by  design.  She  felt 
past  thinking.  For  a  time  she  rode  thus, 
heedlessly.  Then  abruptly  she  clutched 
at  the  reins  and  drew  the  horse  to  a 
halt.  The  animal  pricked  up  his  ears 
peculiarly. 

Weirdly  out  of  the  wind  and  dust 
came  a  sound — not  a  moan,  not  a  croon, 
but  like  them  both,  yet  a  song,  uncer 
tain,  apparently  coming  from  no  defini 
tive  point.  She  even  caught  the  words: 


1 76  Harper's  Novelettes 

"All  on  some  lonesome  bill-din 
The  swallow  makes  her  nest; 

All  on  some — lonesome  bill-din 
The — swallow  makes — her  nest." 

Sally  tried  to  call  out.  She  made  but 
a  croaking  noise.  Slipping  from  her 
horse's  back,  she  groped  her  way  forward, 
leading  the  pony,  and  trying  to  shout. 

For  a  rod  or  more  she  battled  against 
the  driving  dust,  then  halted  as  before. 
Not  another  sound  would  the  desert 
render  up — only  the  strange  dry  swish 
ing  by  of  the  particles  of  stuff  rasping  the 
desert's  surface  as  they  passed  and  rose. 

"  Barney !"  she  called,  by  a  mighty 
effort.  There  was  no  response. 

Crying  now,  in  her  anguish  and  plight, 
she  led  the  pony  this  way  and  that,  up 
and  down,  listening,  trying  to  force  a 
shout  through  her  swollen  lips.  At 
length,  in  despair,  she  knew  she  could 
search  no  more.  A  lifelessness  of  feeling 
was  creeping  upon  her.  Mechanically  she 
walked  beside  her  pony,  and  it  was  the 
animal  that  was  leading. 

It  seemed  as  if  she  had  plodded  on 
ward  thus  for  hours,  when  at  length  she 
stumbled  upon  a  gray  little  mound  in  the 
drifting  alkali. 

"  Barney !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely 


Barney  Doont  Braggart        17? 

more  than  a  whisper.  Crooning  and  sob 
bing,  she  lifted  him  up — unconscious,  but 
clinging  to  the  still,  little  form,  that  was 
hugged  to  the  shelter  of  his  breast. 

"Hang  on — oh,  hang  on  to  the  horse, 
dear,  please,"  she  coaxed,  in  all  the  tender 
strength  of  a  new-born  love.  "  Barney — 
try — try,  dear,  please.  I'll  be  your  wife 
— I'll  do  anything — if  only  you'll  try." 

She  had  raised  him  bodily  to  the  pony's 
back.  Stiffly  as  a  man  that  freezes  he 
straddled  the  animal.  He  made  no  an 
swer,  no  movement.  She  feared  he  must 
be  dead.  She  dared  not  look  at  the  little 
papoose.  Barney's  weight  rested  partial 
ly  upon  her  shoulder.  She  tossed  away 
the  reins. 

"  Go  on,  Sancho — go  on  home,"  she 
croaked  to  the  horse,  passionately. 

The  pony  seemed  to  comprehend.  With 
some  faint  fragrance  of  the  waters  of 
Bitter  Hole  in  his  nostrils,  the  willing 
creature  fought  slowly,  steadily  forward, 
against  the  terrible  drift. 

John  Tuttle  and  Henry  Wooster  de 
scried  a  group,  like  a  sculpture  in  whit 
ened  stone  endowed  with  life,  creep 
strangely  out  from  the  blizzard  of  alkali. 
A  blinded  horse,  with  head  bent  low,  bear 
ing  on  its  back  a  motionless  man,  anc| 


1 78  Harper's  Novelettes 

led  by  a  stumbling,  blinded  girl,  against 
whose  shoulder  the  helpless  rider  leaned, 
came  with  ghostlike  slowness  and  silence 
toward  them. 

And  all  day  long,  one  by  one,  more 
men  came  forth,  like  ghosts,  from  the 
dead-land.  But  the  twilight  had  come 
and  the  wind  had  died  away  before  team 
ster  Slivers  limped  from  the  desert.  He 
came  afoot.  He  had  ridden  his  horse  to 
death,  in  his  desperate  quest.  He  could 
barely  see — and  his  hair  was  white,  even 
below  the  coating  of  the  dust. 

Moody  ran  to  meet  him. 

"Barney?  — Sally?  — the  kid?"  the 
teamster  demanded,  raucously. 

"  Back — and  goin?  to  live,"  said  Moody. 
"  The  Injuns  up  to  Red  Shirt  heard  where 
the  little  feller  was  and  was  goin'  on  the 
war-trail,  sudden,  but  the  mother  came 
down  on  the  stage  to-day, — and  got  her 
pretty  little  kid." 

"Oh,  God!  I  didn't  deserve  it!"  said 
Slivers,  and  letting  himself  fall  limply 
to  the  earth,  he  lay  with  his  face  in  the 
curve  of  his  arm  and  shook  with  emotion. 


The   Reparation 

BY   EMERY   POTTLE 

HE  looked  up  from  the  desk  where 
he  had  been  sitting  for  the 
last  hour,  his  head  down  on  his 
arms,  trying  to  shut  out  the  brave  old 
cry  of  life  coming  in  through  the  open 
windows,  pulling  gently  at  his  heart, 
cheeping  through  the  darkened  room 
as  lightly  and  as  blithely  as  the  birds  in 
the  horse-chestnut  tree  just  outside — the 
brave  cry  of  life  that,  somehow,  for  all 
its  clamorous  traditions,  seemed  just 
then  something  peaceful,  something  that 
held  release,  freedom. 

He  stared  about  him,  furtively,  for  an 
instant,  as  if  instinctively  on  his  guard 
against  an  unwelcome  eye.  Then,  pres 
ently,  he  smiled,  and  going  to  a  window, 
pushed  open  the  blinds,  leaning,  with 
elbows  on  the  sill,  gratefully  out  into  the 
rectangular  enclosure,  walled  in  high  by 
houses,  where  the  late  afternoon  sun 
glanced  with  uncertain  warmth  on  the 
horse-chestnut. 


i8o  Harper's  Novelettes 

There  was  now,  he  told  himself,  no  use 
of  evading  or  denying  it  longer;  right  or 
wrong,  things  had  come  to  a  point  with 
him  where  anything  but  the  truth  was 
unbearable ;  it  was  there,  like  a  live  thing 
with  him  in  the  room,  and  out  in  the 
court,  too, — almost  as  if  he  could  put 
out  his  hand  and  draw  it  in  close  to 
him.  Freedom,  that  was  it.  His  lips 
made  the  word  noiselessly,  again  and 
again,  fascinated  with  the  sensation. 
"  Free,  free,"  he  kept  whispering,  stretch 
ing  out  his  hands  greedily,  drawing  in 
full  breaths  of  the  late  September  air. 

"I'm  glad,  that's  all  there  is  to  it — 
glad.  I  can't  help  being  glad — I've 
tried,  too,  but  now,  to-day,  it's  bound  to 
come  out.  Glad!  It's  like  being  let  out 
of  school." 

That  word — school — brought  him  back 
sharply.  It  seemed  to  precipitate  all  the 
old  worry  in  the  solution  that  but  a 
moment  ago  was  so  clear.  He  came 
back  hesitatingly  from  the  window  and 
threw  himself  down  before  the  desk 
again,  unable  to  restrain  something  he 
vaguely  named  his  conscience  from  its 
weary  accusations. 

"It's  an  awful  thing.  It's  true,  it  is. 
I'm  a  beast.  I'm  all  wrong  to  be  like 
this.  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  be  glad  a 


The  Reparation  181 

person  is — "  He  shivered  as  he  with 
held  the  end  of  the  sentence,  though  he 
realized  his  cowardice  in  so  withhold 
ing.  "And  that  person  your — "  Again 
he  hesitated. 

Haldane,  by  the  desk,  was  a  figure  to 
make,  involuntarily,  demands  on  one's 
sympathy.  It  seemed  all  his  life — per 
haps  thirty  years  long — he  had  been  doing 
this  in  one  way  or  another,  and  by  no 
effort  of  his.  People  had  a  fashion  of 
"  looking  out  for  him."  Not  that  he  had 
grown  up  particularly  incapable  or  help 
less;  it  might  rather  have  been  due  to  a 
certain  appealing  gentleness  of  bearing, 
something  that  was  the  resultant  of  a 
half-shy  manner,  expanding  into  boyish 
confidence  winningly;  a  shortish,  slender 
figure,  scarcely  robust;  eager,  friendly 
brown  eyes  behind  his  glasses;  and  a 
keen  desire  to  be  liked.  It  might  be  seen, 
in  the  present  sharp  nervous  play  of  emo 
tion  over  his  face,  how  utterly  he  was  un- 
suited  to  the  weight  of  mental  discom 
fort, — how  it  fretted  and  galled  him.  That 
he  was  a  gentleman,  and  by  nature  of  a 
morbidly  just  and  fair  disposition,  only 
made  his  present  distress  the  more  in 
tolerable  to  him. 

"Lord  God,"  he  muttered,  hopelessly, 
"why,  why  had  it  all  to  be?"  And  this 


182  Harper's  Novelettes 

question  might,  in  the  end,  be  taken 
as  an  aimless  appeal  to  the  Almighty 
to  know  why  He  had  deliberately  led  him 
into  a  wretchedly  miserable  condition  of 
mind  and  left  him  there. 

It  was  the  day  after  Ida's  burial 
— Haldane's  wife's  burial.  A  week  ago 
he  had  taken  her  to  a  city  hospital, 
and  she  had  died  there — she  and  her 
baby — in  the  night,  away  from  Hal- 
dane.  He  had  gone  dazedly,  very  con 
scientiously,  through  the  dreadful,  re 
lentless  activity  that  follows  immediately 
on  the  heels  of  death;  there  was  some 
alleviation  in  the  thought  that  every 
thing  had  been  done  just  as  she  would 
have  liked  to  have  it.  To-day  the  house 
was  free  of  the  grieving,  sickening  smell 
of  flowers;  the  last  of  the  people  had 
mercifully  fulfilled  their  duty  to  Ida  and 
him  and  had  gone,  leaving  him  the 
humiliation  of  their  honest,  warm-hearted 
words  and  halting  phrases  of  sympathy. 

"  Great  God !"  he  had  kept  saying  to 
himself  as  he  listened  to  them,  "if  you 
knew, — if  you  knew!" 

At  times  he  felt,  as  he  thought  of 
those  friends,  secretly  resentful.  "  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  them,  I  don't  believe  I," 
he  caught  himself  saying — "  I'd  ever  have 
married."  But  again  he  stopped  his 


The  Reparation  183 

mental  train  abruptly.  It  was  such  a 
wearisome  business,  this  "  being  fair  " — 
he  put  it  so — to  her;  this  conscientious 
erasing  of  self-justification  which  he  felt 
to  be  so  unworthy.  It  would  have  been 
such  a  relief  to  Haldane  to  be,  for  an 
hour,  obliviously  selfish  in  his  estimate  of 
his  two  years  of  marriage  with  Ida. 

There  had  been  nothing,  after  all,  re 
markable  in  Haldane's  experience — save 
for  him;  nothing  very  far  removed  from 
the  commonplace.  His  father — a  simple- 
hearted  musician — had  trained  his  son  in 
music  since  the  days  when  the  lad 
could  first  hold  a  violin  under  his  little 
chin.  He  had  died  when  the  boy  was 
twenty,  and  Haldane  had  gone  on,  con 
tentedly  enough  and  absorbed,  to  take  his 
father's  place  among  the  violins  of  an 
orchestra,  and  to  teach  music.  As  he 
grew  older  his  father's  friends  told 
him  he  was  leading  a  wretchedly  lone 
ly  life;  that  he  ought  to  marry.  And 
at  this  Haldane  smiled  his  depreca 
ting,  affectionate  smile — a  smile  that, 
somehow,  convinced  his  advisers  in  their 
own  wisdom. 

When  Ida  Locke  came  to  live  in  a  hall 
bedroom  of  the  untidy  boarding-house 
Haldane  for  years  had  called  home,  it  was 
not  long  before  she,  too,  quite  unaffect- 


1 84  Harper's  Novelettes 

edly,  took  to  the  idea  that  the  good- 
natured  musician  needed  "  looking  after." 
And  since,  all  her  life,  she  had  tremen 
dously  given  herself  to  the  care  of  people 
around  her,  it  was  no  unusual  experi 
ence — she  sought  it  frankly,  importantly. 

It  is  scarcely  probable  that,  in  the  be 
ginning,  any  thought  of  ultimate  mar 
riage  entered  her  head.  Those  who  knew 
her  invariably  said,  "  Ida  is  a  sensible 
girl."  Eather,  her  "  looking  after  "  Hal- 
dane  took  itself  out  in  the  hearty  chan 
nels  of  dry  boots,  overshoes,  tea  of  late 
afternoons,  candid  suggestions  as  to 
proper  winter  underwear,  remedies  for  his 
frequent  colds.  This  solicitude — which 
was,  in  essence,  quite  maternal — made  a 
bond  between  the  two;  this  and  the  fact 
that  they  both  were  workers — for  Ida 
taught  English  in  a  private  school. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  elaborate  their 
romance,  if  it  was  such,  from  this  point. 
Gradually,  hastened  by  the  awful  pro 
pinquity  in  a  third-rate  boarding-house, 
Haldane  really  came  to  believe — as  along 
the  line  of  least  resistance — in  his  per 
sonal  incapacity  and  his  loneliness; 
gradually  Ida  Locke  began  to  realize  that, 
for  the  first  time,  this  Love  she  had  read 
of  and  dreamed  of  doubtfully  had  become 
a  reality  for  her.  She  was  not  a  little 


The  Reparation  185 

amazed  and  gratified  at  its  plain  practica 
bility — its  sensibleness,  she  put  it. 

That  she  so  liked  him — indeed,  he  liked 
her  enormously,  he  considered — assured 
Haldane  in  his  moments  of  misgiving. 
The  very  largeness  in  her  ample  effect  of 
good  looks,  her  genius  for  managing  his 
affairs  and  hers,  her  prim  neatness  of 
dress,  her  utter  freedom  from  any  sort  of 
weak  dependence  on  him,  her  uncom 
promising  rigidity  of  moral  attitude,  and, 
above  all,  her  goodness  to  him — this  con 
vinced  him  of  her  ultimate  fitness  to  be 
a  wife  to  him;  and  it  must  be  said  that 
he  had  never  heretofore  given  anything 
but  the  scantest  attention  to  the  matter 
of  sentimental  attachments;  it  had  not 
occurred  to  him,  definitely,  that  he  was 
even  likely  some  day  to  fall  splendidly 
in  love. 

So  when  he  asked  her,  shyly,  gently, 
to  marry  him  she  consented  frankly — too 
frankly,  Haldane  almost  admitted.  And 
since,  in  the  world  as  she  knew  it,  men 
did  not  ask  women  to  marry  them  unless 
they  loved  them  really,  she  took  much 
for  granted,  and  began,  at  once,  to  look 
for  a  cheap  flat. 

Ida  gave  up  her  teaching  when  they 
married  and  went  to  their  Harlem  flat. 
Indeed,  she  considered  this  her  domestic 


1 86  Harper's  Novelettes 

right;  now,  after  almost  a  dozen  years- 
she  was  older  than  Haldane — of  instruc 
tion,  she  wanted  "to  rest,  and  keep 
house,"  she  told  her  husband. 

Then,  suddenly,  illogically  perhaps, 
after  not  more  than  three  months  of  it, 
Haldane  knew  it  was  all  quite  intolerable 
to  him.  Before  the  desk  to-day,  Ida's 
desk,  he  saw  luminously  just  how  in 
tolerable  it  had  been — these  two  years 
of  marriage. 

The  more  irritatingly  unbearable,  too, 
it  was  because  of  the  excellence  of  Ida's 
qualities — qualities  he  had  taken  humor 
ously  before  marriage,  but  which  later 
he  had  to  take  seriously.  He  began  to 
hate  her  constant  and  intimate  posses 
sion  of  his  motives  and  tastes,  her  in 
quiries  as  to  what  he  ate  for  lunch,  and 
whether  he  considered  his  flannels  quite 
adequate.  He  childishly  resented  her 
little  nagging  economies — and  especially 
because  he  knew  they  were  generally 
necessary.  He  chafed  at  the  practical, 
sensible  view  he  was  argued  resolutely 
into  on  every  matter.  What  made  it  hard 
was  that  Haldane  could  not  decently  ac 
count  for  his  revulsion  of  feeling  toward 
Ida,  now  she  was  his  wife.  Worse  than 
all,  he  saw  how  lightly  she  held  in  esteem 
his  music — his  one  real  love.  To  her  it 


The  Reparation  187 

was  a  graceful  trade  to  earn  a  living  by — 
nothing  else.  And  when  she  finally  made 
it  out  that  in  his  position  in  the  orchestra 
he  was  likely  never  to  rise  much  higher, 
unconsciously  the  fiddling  seemed  to  her 
rather  more  of  a  small  business.  She 
told  him  he  ought  to  be  more  ambitious. 

One  night  Haldane  had  played  to  Ida 
— he  resented  so  her  name  Ida — parts  of 
the  score  of  a  light  opera  he  had  been  at 
work  on  for  years; — he  would  never  play 
it  on  the  boarding-house  piano. 

The  moment  was  as  vivid  for  Haldane 
now  as  it  was  then.  He  could  hear  again 
her  brisk  cheerful  voice  when  he  had 
finished  and  was  waiting — more  hopeful 
than  he  had  ever  yet  been  with  her: 
"That's  pretty.  It's  funny— isn't  it, 
dear? — to  think  you  made  it  up  out  of 
your  own  head.  I  never  could  under 
stand — Leonard,  have  you  got  entirely  rid 
of  your  sore  throat? — Why  don't  you  try 
to  sell  some  of  your  little  tunes?" 

The  disappointment  of  it  all,  for  an 
instant,  had  brought  angry  tears  to  his 
eyes.  He  remembered  now  just  the  bitter 
hopelessness  of  feeling  how  she  had  failed 
him — and  the  remembrance  hurt  anew. 
That  night  he  had  seen  almost  clearly 
how  it  was  to  be  with  him  and  her  in  all 
the  years  to  come. 


1 88  Harper's  Novelettes 

There  was,  in  Haldane's  subsequent 
attitude  toward  the  question  of  his  mar 
riage  to  Ida  Locke,  nothing  worth  the 
name  of  heroic.  Indeed,  looked  at  from 
the  commonplace,  critical  standpoint,  the 
situation  was  not  so  bad.  It  was  Hal 
dane's  personal  conception  of  it  which 
caused  the  difficulty.  Probably  it  was 
his  sense  of  fairness  to  her  which  made 
him  accept  matters  quietly — as  he  did  ac 
cept  them.  It  was  his  comfort  to-day,  out 
of  all  the  ruck  of  his  artificial  self- 
reproach,  that  Ida  had  never  known — as 
he  said — how  he  felt  toward  her. 

"  She  never  knew,"  he  repeated  often, 
"  she  never  knew.  She  couldn't,  I'm  sure. 
Thank  God  for  that!" 

What  she  had  never  known  was,  in 
Haldane's  mind,  his  real  idea  of  her  as 
his  wife.  For  he  had  been  very  kind;  he 
had  patiently  let  her  look  out  for  him ;  he 
had  kept  the  fret  of  his  heart  off  his 
tongue,  and  the  sulkiness  of  his  temper 
off  his  face.  What  he  had  not  succeeded 
in  doing,  however,  was  to  keep  the  hurt 
of  his  soul  out  of  his  eyes.  So  they  had 
gone  on  with  it  for  the  two  years,  with  a 
prospect  of  going  on  with  it  forever, 
Haldane  growing  daily  quieter,  more  re 
served,  if  anything  more  gently  kind,  and 
more  pathetically  hopeless.  With  Ida  it 


The  Reparation  189 

was,  rather,  a  large,  legitimate  outlet  foi 
all  the  sensibleness,  practicality,  capable 
qualities,  she  so  generously  possessed.  Il 
seemed  to  her,  when  she  knew  her  child 
was  coming,  that  she  was  wonderfully 
reaching  the  culmination  of  womanhood 
and  wifehood.  Yet,  after  all,  it  had  been 
but  just  death  for  Ida. 

All  this  was  running  through  Hal 
dane's  brain  as  he  sat,  on  the  day  after 
his  wife's  burial,  before  her  little  oak 
desk.  And  the  result  he  had  to  make 
out  of  it  was  always  the  same: 

« I'm  glad  it's  over.    I'm  glad." 

The  room  seemed  less  burdensome 
when  he  came  back  to  it  late  that  night. 
Oppressed  with  the  hatefulness  of  his 
attitude  of  the  afternoon,  Haldane  had 
seized  his  hat  and  had  fled  out  into  the 
streets.  He  had  dined  at  a  restaurant, 
a  thing  he  had  not  done  in  years,  and 
had  listened  to  a  bad  orchestra  play  cheer 
ful  tunes — tunes  that  somehow  livened 
him  up,  stayed  comfortably  in  his  mind 
afterwards.  Every  one  he  saw  seemed  so 
happy.  He  assured  himself  that  happi 
ness — a  quiet  content,  at  least — was  to 
be  his  now.  Why  not  ?  Why  disguise  the 
fact  that  he  was  really,  underneath,  glad  ? 

So  he  smiled  and  lingered  and  sipped  his 
13 


1 90  Harper's  Novelettes 

coffee,  feeling  suddenly  the  beautiful 
realization  that  he  was  again  of  the 
world — irresponsible,  careless.  Coming 
back  into  the  dull  flat  was  not  half  the 
gloomy  effort  he  had  fancied  it  was  going 
to  be.  For  one  blessed  thing,  he  came 
when  he  chose.  Besides,  something  had 
given  him  a  sense  of  his  right,  his  cheer 
ful  right,  to  be  as  he  liked,  what  he  liked. 
Haldane  went  about  the  tiny  rooms  hum 
ming  gently;  he  played  softly  on  the 
piano  some  old  love-songs  he  had  com 
posed  when  he  was  twenty — things  she 
had  never  heard. 

Presently  he  sat  down,  lighted  a  fresh 
cigarette,  and  set  himself  to  thinking  out 
matters  anew. 

"  It  was  a  mistake,  that's  all,"  he  said, 
at  last.  "  And  that's  plain.  A  mistake  for 
me.  But  now  it's  all  over  and  done  with. 
There's  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  this  end 
less  accusing  and  regret  over  something 
that  couldn't  be  helped  —  helped,  at 
least,  after  it  was  once  started.  .  .  .  I'll 
always  wear  my  hurt  of  it;  that  I  know. 
It  hurts  like  the  devil  to  think  I  didn't— 
couldn't — give  her  the  love  she  ought  to 
have  had.  If  there  were  any  way— any 
possible  way  of  reparation,  .  .  .  but  I  sup 
pose  there  isn't.  Nothing  except  to  live 
decently  and  honorably — if  that's  repara- 


The  Reparation  191 

tion.  Thank  God,  'tisn't  as  if  there  were 
any  other  woman  mixed  up  in  it — I 
haven't  got  that  to  worry  me  at  any 
rate.  I  wonder  whether  a  man  gets  his 
punishment  for — but  no,  you  can't  help 
feeling,  and  being,  and  loving,  just  as  it 
comes.  It's  this  dreadful  unconventional- 
ity  of — not  really  liking — loving  a  person 
you  are  supposed  to  love  that  warps  your 
judgment.  And  we  lie  about  it  to  our 
selves  and  to  others  till  when  we  have  to 
face  the  real  truth  we  go  all  to  pieces. . . . 
But,  just  the  same,  I'd  feel  so  much  easier 
if  there  were  only  some  way  I  could  make 
it  up  to  Ida  now  that  she's  gone.  Poor 
Ida,  poor  Ida." 

Haldane's  eyes  strayed  to  the  little, 
cheap  desk  again,  and  for  a  moment  the 
distress  of  the  afternoon  was  renewed. 
But  he  resolutely  threw  off  the  accusing 
mood  he  so  feared.  There  was  a  pile  of 
letters  lying  there — letters  that  he  had 
had  neither  the  time  nor  the  heart  to 
look  into  for  the  past  week.  He  picked 
them  up  now  with  relief  at  finding  some 
thing  tangible  to  be  done.  Most  of  them 
were  letters  of  consolation  and  sympathy 
for  him  from  his  friends  and  hers;  the 
worn  phrases  one  can  so  little  avoid  in 
such  missives  touched  him  with  a  sense 
of  their  dual  ineffectually.  Other  letters 


192  Harper's  Novelettes 

were  addressed  to  Ida — commonplace  mes 
sages  and  bills  which  she  had  not  been 
able  to  open.  And  there  was  one  from 
her  mother — written  evidently  before  she 
had  heard  of  her  daughter's  imminent 
illness  and  death.  This  last  Haldane 
laid  aside  until  he  had  finished  the 
others;  and  even  then  he  looked  at  it 
long  and  somewhat  tenderly  before  he 
opened  it 

"  It  must  have  come  very  hard  to  her ; 
Ida  was  all  she  had,"  he  considered.  "  It 
must  have  been  very  hard."  He  thought 
of  the  tear-stained,  illegible  letter  Ida's 
mother  had  sent  him  after  she  had  had 
his  telegram.  An  illness  had  prevented 
her  from  coming  to  the  funeral;  and  she 
lived  so  far  away,  somewhere  in  Iowa. 
Her  heart  was  bleeding  for  him,  she 
wrote.  Her  own  loss  was  almost  blotted 
out  in  the  thought  of  his  terrible  grief. 
He  had  never  finished  it — that  letter;  he 
could  not.  Such  words  had  seemed  too 
sacred  for  him  to  read,  feeling  as  he  did. 
So  he  had  torn  it  up. 

"  Ida  was  very  good  to  her  mother,"  he 
reflected ;  "  at  least  she  was  conscientious 
ly  always  trying  to  do  her  best  by  her, 
support  her  and  all  that.  She  took  it 
awfully  as  a  duty — but  she  did  it." 

Once,  after  they  were  married,  Ida  had 


The  Reparation  193 

gone  back,  for  six  months,  to  the  private 
school  that  she  might  have  money  to  send 
her  mother  in  a  sudden  financial  stress. 
Haldane  thought  of  that,  too,  with  keen 
regret  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  earn 
the  necessary  money  himself — he  was  ill 
that  winter.  Yes,  surely,  Ida  had  been 
splendid  in  the  matter  of  her  mother. 
"It's  a  pity  that  things  weren't  so  that 
Ida's  mother  could  have  come  to  see  us 
here  in  New  York,"  Haldane  said,  as  he 
opened  the  envelope — "come  before  Ida 
died."  The  letter  itself  was  not  long. 
When  he  had  finished  with  it — and  this 
only  after  a  third  reading — he  laid  it 
down  slowly  and  stared  silently  at  the  fine 
old-fashioned  characters. 

"Great  God!"  he  said  at  last,  gently, 
"the  poor  old  lady!" 

"My  dear  daughter,"  ran  the  letter, 
"  mother  is  so  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you 
this  now  when  all  your  thoughts  and 
energies  must  be  centred  on  the  wonder 
ful  event  so  soon  to  happen.  It  seems  to 
me  I've  always  been  calling  on  you  for 
help  and  you  have  done  so  much.  Oh,  it 
hurts  me  to  have  to  worry  and  distress 
you  now,  dear. 

"  The  truth  is  that  Mr.  Liddell  is  going 
to  foreclose  the  mortgage  on  the  house. 
He  says  he  cannot  wait  longer  than  a 


IQ4  Harper's  Novelettes 

week  or  two.  I've  tried  every  way  to  get 
the  interest,  but  I  can't  do  it.  The  little 
I  had  left,  your  cousin  George  invested 
for  me,  and  now  he  tells  me — I  don't 
understand  it  at  all — that  it's  quite  lost. 
I  know  you'll  say  I  was  foolish  to  let 
George  have  it,  but  he  promised  so  much 
— and  George  has  been  so  good  to  me.  I 
won't  ask  you  and  Leonard  to  give  me  a 
home;  that  would  be  unfair  to  you  both. 
I'm  so  distressed  and  upset.  Write  me, 
if  you  can,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  is 
best."  And  there  was  more  in  the  same 
distressed  key. 

Haldane  was  as  near  his  decision,  per 
haps,  when  he  laid  down  the  letter  as 
hours  afterward  when  he  stumbled  to  bed. 
It  was  strangely  clear  to  him — the  atti 
tude  he  was  to  assume.  Not  that  he  did 
not  make  a  fight  of  it,  and  a  sharp  fight. 
But,  after  all,  he  knew  from  the  first  how 
it  was  destined  to  end. 

"  I  asked  for  my  chance  to  make  it  up 
to  her,"  he  muttered.  "  Well,  I've  got  it, 
haven't  I?  Isn't  this  it?  If  where  she  is 
she  knows  to-night  that  I  never  loved  her 
— sometimes  even  hated  her — then  she 
knows  that  I'll  try  to  pay  it  back  to  her 
in  the  only  way  I  can.  I'll  bring  her 

mother  here 'to  live  with  me My  God! 

and  I  wanted  so  the  freedom  of  it  all 


The  Reparation  19  5 

again,  just  to  feel  free.  .  .  .  No,  this  is 
it— my  way— I'll  take  it.  It's  what  I 
owe  Ida.  I  can't  reason  it  out  logically 
and  I  dare  say  the  world  would  put  it 
straight  that  I  didn't  have  to  do  this — 
take  her  mother — hut  I  will.  I  would 
n't  feel  right  about  it  in  this  life  or 
in  any  next  if  I  didn't.  Yes,  that's 
the  reparation." 

Haldane's  last  thought  before  he  slept 
that  night,  as  it  was  in  the  fortnight  be 
fore  she  came,  was,  "What  is  Ida's 
mother  like?  I  wonder  if — she  is  like — 
like  Ida?" 

It  had  been  six  months — a  whole  win 
ter  and  more — since  Ida's  mother  had 
come  to  live  with  Leonard  Haldane.  And 
altogether  unexpectedly  it  had  been,  for 
Haldane,  quite  the  most  beautiful  winter 
he  had  ever  spent.  As  for  Ida's  mother — 
well,  when  she  was  alone  her  eyes  were 
constantly  filling  with  tears — tears  of 
thankfulness  that  the  Lord  had  sent  her, 
in  the  language  of  her  frequent  prayers 
of  gratitude,  a  son  to  stay  the  declining 
years  of  her  life — a  son  to  her  who  had  so 
wanted  a  son  all  these  years. 

Haldane  could  never  forget  that  night 
he  had  gone,  with  sharp  misgivings,  to 
the  station  to  meet  Mrs.  Locke.  "  I  sup- 


196  Harpers  Novelettes 

pose  I'm  a  fool,"  he  had  muttered,  as 
he  paced  miserably  up  and  down  the 
draughty,  smoky  enclosure  where  her 
train,  already  very  late,  was  to  come  in. 
"  But  it's  my  debt  to  the  dead  Frnj  going  to 
pay."  He  added  a  moment  later :  "  What 
I  shall  hate  most  of  all,  what  will  be  hard 
est  to  bear,  will  be  her  endless  sympathy. 
For  she  won't  know — she'll  never  know — 
just  how  it  was  between  Ida  and  me." 

He  was  to  look  for  a  "  little  dried-up, 
frightened  woman  in  a  black  bonnet, 
with  a  handkerchief  in  her  left  hand  " — 
so  Mrs.  Locke  had  written  him.  Haldane 
had  smiled  at  the  frank  characterization 
— that,  somehow,  didn't  sound  like  Ida's 
spirit  in  her  mother. 

She  was  the  last  to  come  out  through 
the  iron  gate.  Almost  he  had  given  her 
up,  she  had  delayed  so  long.  A  little, 
dried-up,  frightened  woman  in  a  black 
bonnet — that  was  she.  Like  a  tiny,  stray 
cloud,  very  nervous  and  out  of  place. 
Her  face  was  white  with  fatigue,  the  ex 
citement  of  the  journey,  and  the  thought 
of  how  she  should  meet — ought  she  to 
call  him  Leonard?  And  when  Haldane 
saw  her  he  suddenly  smiled  boyishly — as 
if  there  could  be  such  a  thing  as  a  prob 
lem  over  this  scared,  half-tearful,  ridicu 
lously  pathetic,  white-haired  old  woman 


The  Reparation  197 

with  a  black-bordered  handkerchief  in  her 
shaking  left  hand. 

Before  he  considered  it  he  had  said 
gently,  "  Well,  mother—" 

The  tears  in  her  eyes  welled  over  as 
she  gasped  in  a  whisper,  "  My  boy !" 

So,  after  all,  there  was  no  awkward, 
conscious  period  of  adjustment  for  the 
two.  They  took  up  their  life  simply  and 
quite  as  if  it  were  no  new  thing  to  them 
both — as  if  they  had  come  together  again 
after  a  long  separation.  And  it  was, 
perhaps,  in  a  way,  just  that — a  coming 
together  of  elements  that  had  long  been 
kept  apart.  "  She's  not  like  Ida,"  Hal- 
dane  kept  saying  to  himself. 

"  You're  just  like  a  mother  in  a  story 
book  ;  the  kind  you  always  want  when  you 
read  about  them,"  Haldane  often  told 
her.  "  You  know,  I  never  had  one — one 
that  I  remember;  mine  died  so  long  ago." 

"  And  you — you're — quite  my  son,"  she 
would  answer  shyly,  her  voice  trembling 
with  the  joy  of  it.  It  was  such  a  regret 
to  her  that  she  hadn't  Leonard's  readiness 
of  speech  and  the  courage  to  break  down 
her  reserve — for  she  wanted  to  tell  him, 
as  she  said  to  herself,  just  how  she  felt, 
just  how  good  he  was  to  her. 

So  it  was  a  beautiful  winter  for  them 
both.  Naturally  there  was  the  fact  of 


198  Harper's  Novelettes 

Ida  that  had  to  be  faced.  That  was  tre 
mendously  hard  at  first.  He  constantly 
felt  her  grieving  for  him,  for  the  failure 
of  all  his  hopes,  the  wreck  of  all  a  man 
holds  so  precious.  And  there  were  all  the 
details  of  Ida's  sickness  and  death  to  be 
gone  over  with  her  mother — the  things 
she  had  done  just  before.  How  she 
looked;  the  quantity  of  flowers;  even 
what  she  wore  for  her  burial.  Instinct 
ively  Haldane  knew  how  dear  these  mat 
ters  were  to  her,  and  he  went  over  them 
faithfully,  effacing  his  own  bitterness  of 
memory  as  best  he  might.  When  Mrs. 
Locke  hesitatingly  asked  him  one  evening 
if — if  Ida  had — had  said  anything — left 
any  message  for  her,  Haldane's  heart 
ached  for  her;  Ida  had  left  no  message. 
He  softened  it  as  best  he  might. 

"You  see,  she  didn't  know,  couldn't 
know,  that — that  she  was  going  to  die. 
It  was  all  so  sudden,  you  know,  so  aw 
fully  sudden." 

Mrs.  Locke  nodded.  "Yes — I  see. 
Poor  Ida!  She  did  so  much  for  me 
always." 

After  a  month  or  so,  quite  uncon 
sciously,  they  ceased  to  mention  Ida. 
Haldane,  when  he  thought  of  it  at  all— 
and  that  with  relief — wondered  vaguely 
why  Ida's  mother  did  not  talk  more 


The  Reparation  199 

about  her.  "Perhaps  it's  because  she 
doesn't  want  to  keep  hurting  me,"  he 
thought  it  out,  "  bless  her  I" 

Gradually  the  intimacy  between  Hal- 
dane  and  his  mother — for  she  was  quite 
that  to  him — grew  into  a  relation  that 
was  as  rare  as  it  was  tender.  They  both 
felt  it  keenly.  Their  talk  was  all  of  him, 
his  affairs,  his  music.  He  played  to  her 
for  hours  in  the  evenings  he  was  not  at 
the  orchestra;  when  he  was  teaching  in 
the  mornings  she  would  steal  into  the 
room,  and  sit,  sewing,  in  a  corner,  listen 
ing  gratefully  to  the  dreary  routine  of 
his  pupils'  exercises.  She  seemed  never 
to  tire  of  "  being  near  Leonard."  And  al 
ways  she  was  asking,  "  Won't  you  play  a 
little  from  the  opera,  Leonard?" 

Once  she  said  to  him,  with  her  timid 
smile :  "  It's  like  heaven,  having  so  much 
music  all  the  time.  Seems  as  if  all 
my  life  I've  been  just  starved  to  death 
for  tunes." 

Haldane  bent  and  kissed  her  white 
hair.  "  Well,  mother,"  he  laughed,  "  it's 
quite  a  real  piece  of  heaven  to  have  you 
around  the  place." 

"  You're  spoiling  me,"  she  cried ;  "  how 
can  I  ever  go  back  to  Iowa?" 

"Who  said  Iowa  in  this  house?"  he 
demanded  of  her.  "You're  to  stay  al- 


200  Harper's  Novelettes 

ways — as   long  as  you   can   stand  me — 
always" 

"My  son!"  she  kept  murmuring  aftei 
he  had  gone,  as  if  she  loved  the  words  on 
her  lips.  "  He's  just  the  kind  of  son  I  used 
to  hope  I  might  have,"  she  sighed.  "I 
don't  see — it's  so  strange  why  he's  so  good 
to  me.  I'm  not  at  all  like  her.  Ida  wag 
so  sensible  always,  and  I'm  not  at  all — 
Ida  always  told  me  I  couldn't  take  care  of 
myself,  that  I  was  very  foolish.  I  don't 
see  why  Leonard  is  so  kind  to  me.  It 
must  be  just  because  I'm  her  mother. 
Leonard  must  have  loved  her  so  much, 
and  understood  her.  Poor  Ida!" 

The  spring  had  broken  through  its  first 
slender  greenish  film  into  the  freshness 
of  its  young  beauty.  The  sense  of  faint, 
far  voices  endlessly  calling  was  in  the 
air.  Again  the  windows  of  the  little  flat 
were  opened  and  again  the  afternoon  sun 
warmed  to  golden  green  the  new  growth 
of  leaves  on  the  horse-chestnut  in  the 
rectangular  enclosure  outside. 

Haldane  had  never  felt  so  splendidly 
the  birth  of  new  things — in  himself  and 
in  the  world.  All  the  morning  he  had  been 
constantly  picking  up  his  violin,  playing 
what  he  called  his  "  Spring-feelings  " — 
unrhythmic  wild  snatches  of  melody. 


The  Reparation  201 

"God!  it's  good,  good,  good"  he  cried, 
throwing  back  his  head.  "  Good  to  have 
lived  out  of  it  all  into  this." 

"Mother,"  he  called  presently,  "what 
on  earth  are  you  doing  there  all  alone? 
Come  out  and  play  with  me.  You've 
looked  over  those  old  books  and  papers, 
spring-cleaned  your  old  closets,  too  long. 
If  you  don't  come  out  at  once,  I'll  come 
and  drag  you  out  bodily — I  will  indeed." 

He  ran  to  her  door  in  another  moment, 
and  flinging  it  open  wide,  he  called :  "  If 
you  will  insist  on  being  led  forth —  Why, 
mother,  what  is  it?  what's  the  matter? 
What  is  it?  Are  you  ill?  Why—" 

She  sat  on  a  low  stool  drawn  up  close 
to  her  bed.  Her  hands  were  clasped 
straight  out  before  her  over  a  little  book 
bound  in  faded  imitation  red  leather — a 
little  book  Haldane,  on  the  instant,  with 
curious  alertness,  knew  as  one  of  Ida's 
old  school  note-books.  On  her  face  was 
a  look  so  bewildered,  so  grieved,  so  terror- 
stricken  almost,  that  Haldane  suddenly 
ceased  to  speak.  She  raised  her  eyes  to 
him  with  the  pleading  of  a  hurt  animal. 
For  a  time  neither  uttered  a  word.  And 
then,  all  at  once,  it  seemed  to  Haldane 
as  if  he  knew.  His  gaze  fell  hesitatingly. 
When,  at  last,  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  very 
gentle  voice. 


202  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Mother — is  it  anything  we  can  talk 
out  together — now?" 

She  shook  her  head  dumbly,  the  tears 
gathering  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  Lennie !"  she 
whispered,  finally,  as  if  he  were  a  little 
boy.  "  It  isn't  true,  is  it  ?" 

Haldane  did  not  reply.  She  reached 
out  the  little  red  book  to  him  slowly. 
"You'd — you'd  better  read  it.  I — found 
it — this  afternoon." 

He  took  the  book,  without  wonder,  and 
went  back,  softly  closing  the  door  on  her. 
Unconsciously  he  sat  down  before  the 
little,  cheap,  oak  desk — Ida's  desk — and 
began  to  read.  It  was,  perhaps,  two 
hours  afterward  when  he  had  finished. 
The  room  was  dark  and  very  still. 

"  So  she  knew,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"After  all,  she  knew.  And  I  never 
guessed."  His  head  sank  down  on  his 
arms. 

It  was  a  curious  inconsistency  in  the 
mind  of  Ida  Locke  which  had  prompted 
her  to  write  in  that  red-covered  note-book 
just  what  she  had  written.  No  one  would 
have  guessed  the  secret  strain  of  intro 
spection  in  her,  nor  guessed  the  impulse 
which  led  her  to  put  into  writing  her  hid 
den  life.  Unless,  indeed,  that  introspec 
tion  and  that  impulse  are  always  part  of 
the  intuitions  of  love — yielded  to  or  not, 


The  Reparation  203 

as  may  be.  The  entries  were  scattered — 
as  if  put  down  when  the  stress  of  feeling 
had  overcome  her.  They  ranged  over  the 
two  years  of  their  married  life.  In  each 
one  she  had  seemed,  with  a  startling  lu 
cidity,  to  have  apprehended  exactly  her 
husband's  state  of  mind  toward  her.  She 
had  written  freely,  baldly,  without  excess 
of  sentimentality.  "  I  know  he  hates  me 
sometimes;  I  see  it  in  his  eyes."  Again: 
"  He  is  hideously  kind."  "  He  lives  in  a 
mental  room  that  I  can't  break  into."  In 
another  place  it  ran :  "  Why  is  it  ?  I  am 
his  mental  equal;  his  superior  in  educa 
tion.  I'm  his  wife  and  he  asked  me  to 
marry  him.  And  yet  he  can't  bear  to 
have  me  near  him.  He  hates  me  to-day." 
"  I'm  afraid,"  she  wrote  again,  "  how 
Leonard  will  regard  our  child.  If  he 
should  hate  it,  too.  Perhaps  we  shall 
both  noo  live  through  it."  And  so  it  ran 
on,  with  awful  candor. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  she  had  to  know,"  Hal- 
dane  sighed  again  and  again.  "And, 
now,  what's  to  be  the  end  of  it?  What 
will  Ida's  mother  do?  Lord  God,  she'll 
never  forgive  me — never." 

Late  that  night  Mrs.  Locke  came  in. 
Haldane  had  scarcely  stirred  from  his 
chair.  The  note-book  lay  open  before 


204  Harpers  Novelettes 

him  on  the  desk.  He  looked  at  her  com 
passionately,  for  now  his  thoughts  were 
all  for  the  shrinking,  hurt  woman  beside 
him.  She  had  never  before  seemed  so 
fragile,  so  dependent,  and  yet  he  could 
not  but  mark  in  her  bearing  a  new  res 
olution  of  forces,  a  dignity  as  of  a  stern 
decision.  Haldane  did  not  wait  for  her 
to  question. 

"You  will  want  to  know,"  he  began, 
wearily,  "  if  all  this  written  here  is  true. 
All  this  Ida  wrote  down.  You  want  to 
ask  me  that?  It's — it's  all  true,  quite 
true."  He  waited,  but  she  gave  no  sign. 
"  Quite  true ;  I — I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be 
worth  while  for  me  to  explain  things  now. 
You  will  think  I've  lied  to  you  all  along. 
In  a  way,  I  have.  No,  I  suppose  you 
don't  want  to  hear  me  make  futile  ex 
planations,  excuses." 

"  If  there — there  is  anything  to  be  said, 
Leonard,  you  had  better  say  it — now,"  she 
answered,  nervously,  twisting  her  hand 
kerchief  in  her  fingers. 

He  hesitated  painfully.  "  Everything 
I  might  say  seems  to  be  trying  to  shift 
the  load  from  my  shoulders  on  to — an 
other's,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  It  was  a  mis 
take — that's  all.  A  mistake  for  us.  Be 
fore  it  began — our  marriage — it  was  dif 
ferent,  but  afterward —  She  was  very  good 


The  Reparation  205 

to  me ;  looked  after  me  and  all  that,  but — 
Oh,  I'm  afraid  I'm  only  hurting  you  the 
worse  by  saying  all  this.  You  won't,  you 
can't  understand.  Let  it  be  that  it  was 
all  my  fault.  It  was,  it  was.  Believe 
that,  please.  .  .  .  And  I  know  you  won't 
want  to  stay  here  with  me  any  longer — 
after  this.  I  quite  understand  that.  A 
man  who — who  felt  as  she  wrote  it  all 
down  here — such  a  man  you  wouldn't,  you 
couldn't — "  He  stopped  hopelessly.  "  I 
can't  bear  to  have  you  go,"  he  burst  out, 
impulsively.  "  Where  will  you  go  ?  Back 
there  to  Iowa?" 

She  nodded  sorrowfully. 

"  And  have  no  more  music  ?  And — and 
— oh,  it's  cruel.  Why  had  you  to  find  it 
out?  It  didn't  matter  anyway  when  it 
was  all  done  with.  Why  did  you  have  to 
know?  .  .  .  And  you  haven't  any  money. 
You  must  let  me  help  you.  Let  me  do 
that — just  that.  Can't  you  forget  it  all 
enough  for  that?  Surely  you've  liked 
me — for  what  you've  liked  in  me,  let  me 
help  you.  Great  heavens,  if  I  thought 
of  you  alone  out  there,  without  money — 
Must  you  go  ?" 

Haldane  was  fast  losing  control  of 
himself.  With  an  effort  he  pulled  him 
self  together  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  You're  right  to  go,"  he  said.  "  Right. 
14 


206  Harper's  Novelettes 

You  wouldn't  want  anything  to  do  with 
me  now." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  though  loath  to 
meet  her  eyes.  There  was  a  wonderful 
pity  in  her  face.  "Don't!"  he  cried, 
sharply,  not  understanding. 

"I  want  to  say  this,"  he  broke  out 
again,  almost  roughly.  "  I  never  guessed 
that  she  knew  how  I  felt  toward  her.  ] 
wasn't  cruel  or  beastly — I  was  kind. 
They  say  that's  cruelty,  too.  I  tried — my 
God !  how  I  tried ! — never  to  let  her  know 
the  truth.  That's  all  I  can  say  for  my 
self;  .  .  .  you'd  better  go." 

She  was  so  silent  that  at  last  he  faced 
her  again.  She  was  crying  softly,  and, 
it  appeared,  without  bitterness.  Haldane 
stared  at  her  curiously. 

"  I  wanted  to  know  that — that  last  you 
said,"  Mrs.  Locke  gasped,  with  difficulty. 
"  I — I — I've  been  thinking  it  all  over  in 
my  room.  It's  very  hard  to  say — please 
let  me  go  on  with  it  just  as  I  can.  I — I've 
said  I  wanted  to  hear  that  last.  But  I 
knew  it — in  my  heart — all  the  time.  I 
knew  you  couldn't  be  cruel  to  a  living 
thing.  And — and — somehow — it  changed 
— things.  I've  had  such  a  terrible  strug 
gle  all  alone.  I've  tried  to  pray  over  it 
and — oh,  I'm  afraid  I'm  very  wrong  and 
very  wicked — I  almost  know  I  am."  Her 


The  Reparation  207 

voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  "  But — oh,  Leon 
ard  .  .  .  somehow  I  just  seemed  to  feel 
inside  me  just  how  you  felt,  just  how — it 
was  with  you  those  two  years.  Oh,  it's  a 
dreadful  thing  to  say,  isn't  it  ?  Poor  Ida ! 
She  was  so  good  to  me,  and  yet  some 
times — "  The  trembling  old  woman's 
voice  faltered  and  broke. 

Haldane's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  A 
great  light  was  slowly  breaking  for  him. 
He  dared  not  speak. 

"  Don't  think  I'm  a  wicked  old  woman, 
Leonard;  I  never  even  guessed — till  I 
came  here — how  I  felt.  And  then  you 
were  like  a  son — my  son — the  boy  I 
wanted  so,  and  —  I  loved  the  music 
so,  and  being  with  you,  more  than 
anything  I  ever  knew — it  doesn't  seem 
as  if—" 

Haldane  put  his  hand  on  hers  gently, 
"  As  if  you  could  go  away  now  ?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  little  sad 
smile,  and  in  her  face  was  a  sweet  dignity, 

"Yes,  I  cannot  go — now,  my  son.'' 


The  Yearly  Tribute 

BY   ROSINA   HURLEY  EMMET 

"  |""^OR    science    is    a    cruel    mistress. 
'    She    exacts    a    yearly    tribute    of 
flesh  and  blood  like  the  dragons 
of  ancient  pagan  mythology." 

The  eminent  scientist  paused  momen 
tarily  here  and  viewed  the  earnest  young 
faces  before  him.  In  this  poetic  figure 
of  speech  he  saw  fit  to  present  to  them 
the  hardships  of  the  life  they  had  chosen 
to  embark  upon.  It  was  a  hot  June  morn 
ing,  and  the  heavy  scent  of  syringa  came 
in  through  the  high  uncurtained  windows 
of  the  lecture  -  hall.  All  the  students 
stared  with  reverence  at  this  distinguish 
ed  stranger,  who  had  come  a  long  dis 
tance  to  speak  to  the  graduating  class; 
and  one  of  its  members  sighed  deeply 
and  turned  his  eyes  to  the  window,  and 
watched  some  maple  leaves  moving  lan 
guidly  against  the  blue  sky.  The  lec 
turer  heard  his  sigh,  saw  him  fall  into 
abstraction,  realized  the  peculiar  char- 


The  Yearly  Tribute  209 

acter  of  his  face;  and  marked  him  as  a 
man  who  would  serve  to  the  end,  possibly 
becoming  one  of  the  victims  of  that 
cruel  mistress. 

Pilchard  and  Swan  had  stopped  to  rest 
in  the  middle  of  the  plaza.  The  black 
Mexican  night  was  falling  and  a  few 
stars  blossomed  in  the  sky,  but  there  was 
no  abatement  in  the  heat  which  had  held 
since  sunrise;  rather,  indeed,  the  thick 
ness  of  the  atmosphere  seemed  intensi 
fied.  The  two  Americans,  who  had  spent 
a  whole  year  in  Mexico  and  become  ac 
customed  to  the  climate,  attempted  to 
make  themselves  comfortable.  Pilchard 
sank  to  a  dilapidated  bench  and  lighted 
a  cigarette;  and  Swan,  not  having  even 
sufficient  spirit  to  smoke,  stretched  him 
self  bodily  on  the  flat  stones  which  paved 
the  plaza,  and  placed  his  old  hat  upon 
his  upturned  face. 

Both  young  men  seemed  depressed,  and 
without  speaking  they  listened  to  the 
moaning  of  the  ocean  which  heaved  and 
glistened  in  the  distance;  and  when  Pil 
chard  finally  said,  "  So  poor  Murphy  is 
gone  too,"  and  Swan  responded,  "  His 
troubles  are  over,  poor  fellow,"  it  showed 
how  completely  they  had  been  absorbed  in 
the  same  thought. 


2io  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  And  Mulligan  last  week,"  Pilchard 
continued,  "  and  all  the  others  who  went 
before,  and  Peele  taken  sick  this  aft 
ernoon.  Swan,  we're  the  only  white 
men  left." 

"  And  we've  only  got  ten  days  left." 
"  Oh,  I  guess  we  can  do  it,  so  long  as 
we're  out  of  the  swamp." 

"  So  long  as  the  swamp  isn't  in  us." 
They  were  alluding  to  the  railroad  they 
had  come  to  Mexico  to  build.  The  time- 
limit  given  in  the  contract  would  expire 
in  ten  days,  and  it  would  be  a  race  to  get 
the  tracks  through  the  town  and  down  to 
the  new  docks  in  that  time.  Swan,  when 
ever  he  thought  of  it,  became  restless,  and 
now  he  sat  up  with  a  jerk,  and  his  old 
hat  slipped  off  his  face.  Even  in  that 
dim  light  Swan's  ugliness  was  apparent. 
He  measured  over  six  feet  and  was  loose- 
jointed  and  ungainly;  he  had  big  flat 
feet,  and  big  bony,  capable  hands;  and 
his  features,  which  were  big  and  bony 
too,  seemed  in  proportion  to  nothing  but 
his  general  ungainliness.  Swan  was  an 
inventive  Yankee  with  no  background 
and  no  tradition.  He  could  not  even 
claim  the  proverbial  Connecticut  farm. 
His  people  had  been  dreary  commercials 
in  a  middle-sized  New  Hampshire  town, 
and  he  had  worked  his  way  through  col- 


The  Yearly  Tribute  211 

lege  to  fit  himself  for  a  scientific  career. 
His  memory  of  his  deceased  parents  was 
so  colorless  that  it  seemed  to  Swan  as 
if  they  had  never  existed,  and  his  con 
tacts  had  been  so  dull,  his  outlook  so 
dreary,  that  he  had  almost  no  conception 
of  beauty.  His  plain  college  room, 
where,  by  the  hour,  he  had  worked  out 
mathematical  problems,  and  a  grimy  en 
gine-room  (which  was  the  next  stage  of 
his  advancement),  where  he  had  stood 
in  a  greasy  black  shirt,  surrounded  by 
an  unceasing  whir  of  machinery,  and 
bossed  a  gang  of  men — these  had  been 
the  things  which  had  substituted  for  him 
romance  and  passion  and  life ;  and  finally, 
when  Pilchard,  a  college  friend,  had  per 
suaded  him  to  come  down  to  Mexico  and 
build  a  railroad,  he  had  taken  off  his 
greasy  black  shirt  and  gone,  principally 
because  this  was  such  a  big  undertaking, 
and  it  would  undoubtedly  in  the  end 
lead  to  something  very  much  bigger. 

The  company  which  was  causing  the 
railroad  to  be  built  had  established  large 
exporting-houses  in  San  Francisco,  which 
sent  down  certain  articles  of  merchan 
dise  to  Mexico,  and  the  railroad  was  de 
signed  to  transport  this  freight  from  one 
of  the  southwestern  seaport  towns  to  the 
city  of  Mexico.  The  undertaking  in- 


212  Harper's  Novelettes 

eluded  the  erection  of  docks  with  swing 
ing  elevators  to  lift  the  freight  from  the 
vessels  and  deposit  it  in  the  cars,  and  as 
the  pay  was  very  large  and  Pilchard  was 
an  adventurous  soul,  he  undertook  the 
job  when  it  was  offered  to  him,  and  going 
to  the  manager's  office,  impressed  him 
with  his  boldness  and  ability,  and  signed 
his  name  to  the  contracts  without  reading 
them  through ;  then  gayly,  and  feeling  no 
uneasiness,  he  buttoned  his  coat  over  the 
neatly  folded  paper  and  went  to  see  Swan. 
Swan,  in  a  greasy  black  shirt,  was  in 
the  engine-room,  hard  at  work,  and  he 
was  just  about  to  reprimand  one  of  the 
men  when  Pilchard  came  in.  Although 
it  was  early  in  May,  a  spell  of  precocious 
heat  had  taken  New  York  by  the  throat, 
and  what  with  the  whir  of  rapidly  turning 
wheels,  and  the  smell  of  hot  machine-oil 
and  perspiring  men,  there  was  some 
thing  filthy  and  degraded  about  the  at 
mosphere.  Swan  suddenly  realized  this,  al 
though  it  was  the  only  atmosphere  he  knew 
anything  about.  Glancing  upward,  he 
saw  a  little  patch  of  blue  sky  through  the 
top  of  one  of  the  grimy  windows  ...  a 
white  cloud  sailed  past  .  .  .  and  then  an 
other  .  .  .  something  akin  to  longing  well 
ed  in  his  heart,  something  like  a  wave  of 
despair  and  hope,  a  desire  to  lift  himself 


The  Yearly  Tribute  213 

into  a  higher  and  less  degraded  world.  .  .  . 
He  looked  toward  the  door  and  saw  Pil 
chard,  and  crossing  the  room,  he  greet 
ed  him  warmly  and  read  the  contract 
Pilchard  pulled  from  his  pocket. 

"  That's  a  queer  business,"  said  Swan, 
when  he  had  finished. 

"How  so?" 

"Man  alive,  haven't  you  read  what 
you've  signed  your  name  to  ?" 

"  Certainly  I've  read  it." 

"And  you  think  you  can  put  the  job 
through  in  a  year  ?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Pilchard,  with  his 
"  cock-sure  "  smile. 

Swan,  like  every  one  else,  was  taken  in 
by  this  smile,  and  to  convince  himself 
he  read  the  contract  again,  out  loud 
this  time,  and  in  a  thoughtful  way.  Pil 
chard  listened. 

The  contract  guaranteed  that  a  rail 
road  covering  two  hundred  and  fifty 
miles,  between  the  city  of  Mexico  and 
the  little  seaport  of  Zacatula,  on  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  would  be  built  and  com 
pleted  in  one  year's  time,  work  starting 
on  the  25th  of  June.  Docks  and  freight- 
elevators  were  included  in  the  work,  and 
if  the  tracks  were  not  in  fit  condition  for 
the  trains  to  run  by  the  date  specified, 
every  penny  of  the  very  large  pay  would 


214  Harper's  Novelettes 

be  forfeited  by  the  builders.  A  strange 
contract,  indeed!  Pilchard,  however,  as 
he  heard  it  read,  betrayed  by  no  sign 
that  he  was  as  much  surprised  as  Swan. 

"Well,"  said  Swan,  looking  up  and 
meeting  that  "cock-sure"  smile,  "you 
think  you  can  do  it  in  a  year?" 

"  I'm  certain  I  can." 

"  Of  course,"  Swan  continued,  not  yet 
convinced,  "  it's  the  worst  country  on 
earth;  full  of  swamp  and  yellow  fever." 

"  I'll  run  in  a  gang  of  Mexican  Indians 
to  lay  the  ties.  They  can  stand  their 
own  climate." 

"  But  you'll  have  to  take  down  some 
white  men,  too,  good  fellows  who  know 
the  business.  You  can't  be  the  only  man 
to  do  the  bossing.  It  'd  kill  you." 

All  this  time  Pilchard  was  closely 
watching  Swan,  and  almost  unconsciously 
something  had  been  growing  in  his  mind. 
Swan  had  an  ugly,  resolute  face,  and  en 
durance  seemed  to  be  expressed  in  every 
line  of  his  body.  Behind  him  the  engine 
roared,  and  spit  steam,  and  ground  out 
the  produce  of  a  great  city  factory;  his 
face  and  hands  were  grimy  and  covered 
with  grease,  and  the  black  cinders  around 
his  deep-set  eyes  gave  him  a  terrible, 
deathly  look.  Pilchard  saw  instantly  that 
he  must  have  Swan  to  do  the  work.  He 


The  Yearly  Tribute  215 

must  take  him  down  to  Mexico  or  else 
the  railroad  would  never  be  built.  Swan 
would  come,  too,  because  there  was  a  look 
of  tragic  fatigue  in  his  deep-set  eyes,  an 
expression  of  sick  nausea  in  the  lines 
about  his  mouth,  that  showed  how  gladly 
he  would  change,  how  completely  he  had 
come  to  the  end  of  his  hopes  here;  so 
Pilchard  suggested  with  a  careless  smile 
that  they  go  down  to  Mexico  together. 
"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  say  that  it 
mightn't  be  better  for  me  to  do  it  alone — 
two  heads  to  a  job,  you  know,  isn't  always 
a  good  arrangement;  but  you've  got  a 
pretty  mean  berth  here.  It  '11  take  years 
for  you  to  get  a  rise,  and  you're  wasting 
your  youth  and  health  shut  up  with  this 
filthy  gang  of  men.  This  job  of  mine 
would  push  you  right  along,  and  you'll 
get  others  like  it.  Better  come." 

Swan  reflected.  His  work  was  the  only 
thing  on  earth  that  he  cared  for,  and  to 
progress  in  his  work,  to  keep  putting 
through  more  and  more  difficult  jobs,  was 
what  he  had  always  aimed  to  do.  But 
had  he  a  right  to  take  advantage  of  Pil 
chard's  generosity?  He  glanced  around 
the  room,  conscious  of  the  incessant 
chattering  of  the  different  parts  of  the 
engine,  which  he  must  keep  going  in 
order  to  turn  out  the  produce  of  a  great 


216  Harper's  Novelettes 

city  factory.  He  was  no  more  here  than 
one  of  the  many  parts  of  that  engine, 
and  if  some  day  he  should  be  absorbed 
into  the  midst  of  those  whirring  wheels 
and  ground  up  like  corn,  who  would  ever 
be  the  wiser? 
So  he  went. 

"  Had  a  letter  from  the  company  to 
day,"  Pilchard  observed,  suddenly. 

"That  so?" 

"  They're  going  to  send  a  fellow  down 
from  Frisco  on  the  steamer  that  touches 
on  the  25th.  Everything  plays  into  their 
hands.  Steamer  reaches  here  the  day  the 
contract  expires." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right." 

"  They  request  that  I  meet  the  fellow 
and  show  him  around." 

"  That's  easy,  too." 

Pilchard  breathed  smoke  through  his 
nose  in  his  self  -  possessed  way,  and 
said  nothing  more,  until  Swan  suddenly 
broke  out: 

"  Well,  I  for  one  won't  be  sorry  to  get 
out  of  this  hole.  I'll  get  the  job  done,  of 
course,  but  we've  just  had  a  terrible  set 
back.  I  think  Peele's  dying." 

"Lord!" 

"  I  came  away  from  him  only  half  an 
hour  ago.  He  may  last  through  the  night, 


The  Yearly  Tribute  217 

but  I  doubt  it.  Anyhow,  if  he  lives  or 
dies,  we're  devilish  pressed  for  time.  I'm 
beginning  to  think  we'll  have  to  work  at 
night,  too." 

"At  night?" 

"  There's  a  full  moon.  Here  she  comes 
now."  Swan  looked  at  the  full  moon, 
which,  as  the  darkness  increased,  grew 
in  radiance. 

Pilchard  breathed  more  smoke  through 
his  nose,  then  said  with  a  sigh:  "That's 
hard  luck,  Swan.  I'm  sorry." 

"Hey?" 

"  And  yet  it's  a  lucky  thing  that  you're 
as  strong  as  you  are.  It's  a  lucky  thing 
you  haven't  got  the  responsibilities  at 
home  that  I  have." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean." 

"  Why,  you  know  I'm  engaged !  I'm 
as  good  as  married.  That  poor  girl's 
got  everything  ready  for  the  wedding. 
You  met  her  that  day  last  year  you  came 
up  to  Maine  before  we  left  New  York." 

"  Yes,  I  met  her." 

"  And  you  remember  how  much  she 
thought  of  me?"  Pilchard  spoke  slowly. 
It  was  impossible  to  tell  why  he  did  so. 
Was  it  because  he  did  not  care  to  dis 
cuss  the  woman  he  loved  with  an  out 
sider  like  Swan,  or  was  it  because  he 
Was  going  on  tiptoe,  because  he  won- 


218  Harper's  Novelettes 

dered  what  he  must  say  next,  because  he 
was  waiting,  hoping  that  something  un 
expected  would  develop? 

Swan,  however,  dropped  the  question 
of  Pilchard's  marriage. 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  you  won't 
work  at  night." 

"  I  can't.     I'm  not  well  enough." 

Swan  grunted  and  sighed  and  stretched 
all  his  limbs,  shaking  his  great  shoulders 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  shake  out  the 
ague.  Then  he  cleared  his  throat  again 
and  turned  to  Pilchard. 

"  See  here,  Pilchard,  it's  time  we  came 
to  some  understanding." 

"  Understanding  ?"  Pilchard  queried  in 
a  surprised  voice. 

"Yes,  about  this  job.  About  the  pay 
— m — not  so  much  the  pay  as  the  credit. 
This  job  ought  to  give  a  man  a  name. 
It's  been  a  big  piece  of  engineering  and 
devilish  hard  work  to  put  it  through. 
I've  planned  the  whole  thing  and  watched 
every  stroke  of  what's  been  done,  and 
I  deserve  at  least  half  the  credit,  if 
not  all." 

Swan  spoke  in  a  brutal,  masterful  way. 
Perhaps  he  realized  as  he  did  so  how 
completely  the  acknowledgment  of  his 
services  depended  on  Pilchard's  gener 
osity.  Pilchard  alone  had  signed  the 


The  Yearly  Tribute  219 

contract,  and  Swan's  existence  was  no 
more  to  the  company  than  the  existence 
of  the  other  workmen.  Moreover,  the 
eleven  mechanics  they  had  brought  down 
had  all  been  carried  off  by  fever,  and 
there  was  no  one  else  who,  in  case  of  ne 
cessity,  could  testify  to  the  splendid 
work  Swan  had  done,  practically  alone.t 
All  this  was  in  Pilchard's  mind  as  well 
as  Swan's,  and  all  this  suddenly  showed 
Pilchard  how  completely  Swan  was  in 
his  power.  He  must  play  a  careful  game. 

"  Why,  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?" 
he  asked,  speaking  rather  angrily. 

"What  do  I  mean?  I  mean  that  this 
is  all  too  unbusinesslike.  It's  too  vague. 
I'm  risking  my  life  to  put  this  business 
through,  and  I  want  to  get  what  I  de 
serve.  It's  the  biggest  thing  I've  ever 
done,  and  I  won't  do  it  for  nothing." 

"For  nothing?  Man  alive,  you're  al 
most  accusing  me  of  dishonesty!  I  told 
you  when  we  started  out  that  I'd  give 
you  half  the  pay.  If  I'd  ever  supposed 
you  didn't  trust  my  word  I'd  have  had 
it  drawn  up  on  paper.  And  as  for  the 
credit,  you  deserve  it  all,  and  you'll  get 
it  all  ...  and  that's  all." 

Pilchard  ended  with  a  self-conscious 
laugh,  and  got  up  to  go  indoors  and  take 
a  few  drinks  before  he  went  to  bed.  He 


220  Harper's  Novelettes 

stood  for  a  moment,  uncertainly,  before 
Swan,  wondering  with  a  strange  distrust, 
which  lately  had  been  growing  upon  him, 
what  Swan  really  thought.  Swan  was 
so  silent  and  reserved,  and  he  worked 
with  such  unflinching  constancy,  that 
Pilchard  often  felt  as  if  he  too  must  be 
developing  some  plan.  It  was  fortunate, 
he  told  himself,  that  there  were  only  ten 
days  more.  His  nerves  could  not  have 
held  out  much  longer;  but  after  he  had 
filled  himself  with  several  drinks  and 
was  sitting  in  gauzy  pajamas  beside 
an  open  window,  things  began  to  look 
brighter.  Ten  days  might  develop  un 
heard-of  things.  To  work  all  night  on 
the  borders  of  a  swamp  in  this  rainy 
season,  which  is  almost  certain  death  for 
a  white  man — Pilchard  closed  his  eyes 
and  peacefully  slept.  .  .  . 

Swan  continued  to  sit  on  the  bench, 
and  throwing  back  his  head,  looked  at 
the  sky.  A  full  moon  swung  above  him, 
huge  and  tropical  and  red,  seeming  to 
garnish  the  black  depths  that  lay  behind 
it  and  that  great  black  mouth  that  opened 
immeasurably  into  the  west.  All  his  act 
ual  surroundings  faded  away,  and,  as  is 
often  the  case  with  men  at  these  moments, 
he  thought  of  a  woman  that  he  had  seen 
once  and  had  never  forgotten. 


The  Yearly  Tribute  221 

That  cool  summer  day  just  a  year  ago 
that  he  had  spent  on  the  coast  of  Maine, 
whither  he  had  gone  to  see  Pilchard 
about  some  final  arrangements  for  their 
journey  to  Mexico — Pilchard  had  intro 
duced  him  to  the  girl  he  was  going  to 
marry,  and  it  had  somehow  happened 
that  he  and  she  had  taken  a  short  walk 
together  along  a  cliff  where  some  pines 
were  growing,  and  which  looked  forlorn 
ly  enough  across  the  solitary  ocean.  Noth 
ing  but  the  most  commonplace  words  had 
passed  between  them;  they  had  talked  of 
Pilchard  and  his  enterprise,  and  had 
stopped  to  look  at  the  view,  and  had 
gazed  out  over  the  rolling  waves.  He  had 
scarcely  dared  look  at  his  companion,  but 
once  he  had  helped  her  over  some  rocks, 
and  he  remembered  that  her  foot  had 
slipped,  and  for  an  instant  her  body  had 
swayed  against  his.  He  remembered,  too, 
that  she  had  pale  cheeks  and  dreamy 
eyes,  and  a  slim  hand  laden  with  rings 
that  held  back  her  skirts.  This  slight 
experience  had  made  a  changed  man  of 
him.  New  senses  existed  for  him,  new 
hopes  for  the  future  that  turned  him 
dizzy,  a  splendid  and  deeper  insight  into 
life.  The  sordid  realities  of  his  life  no 
longer  claimed  all  his  thoughts ;  they  were 
beautified  by  rare  and  exquisite  dreams, 
is 


222  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  by  repetitions  of  that  strange  welling 
of  hope  and  despair  which  had  come  to 
him  in  the  grimy  engine-room.  After 
all,  there  were  things  in  the  world  other 
than  engines  and  boilers  and  steel  tracks ; 
there  were  plenty  of  uses  for  him  besides 
calculating  and  experimenting  and  boss 
ing  a  lot  of  filthy  men.  He,  too,  could 
serve  and  wait  and  hope  and  ...  die! 

Swan  spent  the  remainder  of  that  night 
with  Peele,  and  as  the  sick  man  was  still 
alive  at  sunrise,  and  Swan  was  obliged  to 
oversee  the  men,  he  swallowed  some 
coffee  and  went  off,  leaving  Pilchard  in 
charge.  About  noon  Pilchard  came  out 
to  him  with  a  white  face. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Swan  asked,  full 
of  apprehension. 

"Peele  died  before  you'd  been  gone 
an  hour." 

"We  must  see  to  having  him  buried 
at  once." 

"  He's  underground  already." 

"Where  we'll  all  be  if  we  stay  much 
longer." 

"Where  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  be," 
Pilchard  groaned. 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I'm  about  ready  to  give 
up.  If  it  wasn't  for  you  I  would  give 


The  Yearly  Tribute  223 

up.  I'm  as  weak  as  water.  I  just  saw 
Peele  die,  and  that  finished  me.  Ugh! 
It  was  awful !" 

And  Pilchard,  who  certainly  was  pale, 
drew  a  flask  from  his  pocket  and  took  a 
long  drink.  He  seemed  to  drink  to  his 
own  weakness.  He  seemed  to  glory  in 
the  fact  that  he  had  given  up,  and  that 
he  knew  Swan  never  would. 

Swan  realized  this  and  looked  wearily 
across  the  swamp  they  had  just  covered. 
It  was  all  his  work.  A  narrow  mound  of 
solid  earth  ran  back  as  far  as  eye  could 
reach,  and  on  it  two  shining  steel  rails 
glittered  in  the  blazing  sun.  On  either  side 
lay  wet,  poisonous  ground  covered  with 
deadly  growths  and  exuding  fearful  odors 
and  devitalizing  forces  which  even  the 
heat  could  not  dissipate.  In  that  noon 
day  light  which  burned  and  burned  and 
made  no  impression  on  the  moisture, 
Swan's  face  was  wilted  like  a  white  flower 
which  is  dead  and  turning  yellow.  His 
eyes,  too,  were  like  things  once  living  and 
now  dead.  The  muscles  around  his 
mouth  twitched  like  electric  wire. 

"It  isn't  possible  for  me  to  finish  it 
alone,"  he  told  himself.  He  knew  that  he 
could  finish  the  job  by  working  both 
night  and  day,  but  could  he  stand  the 
strain?  Had  he,  after  all,  a  stronger 


224  Harper's  Novelettes 

physique  than  any  other  white  man  had 
ever  had  before?  He  leaned  far  back  as 
if  he  were  trying  to  fold  himself  up, 
and  then  bent  forward  in  the  same  man 
ner,  trying,  with  a  desperation  like  death, 
to  relieve  the  weakness  that  was  numbing 
his  limbs.  He  suddenly  felt  dizzy  as  he 
looked  at  the  hot  distance  where  some 
big  leaves  were  waving — dizzy  as  he  knew 
that  he  must  fail. 

"  By  God !"  he  exclaimed,  striking  the 
pile  of  dirt.  "  By  God !  I'll  do  it !" 

Pilchard  put  on  his  hat  and  smiled. 
He  had  been  waiting  for  this.  "If  you 
say  you  will,  I  bet  you  will!"  he  told 
Swan.  "  That's  why  you'll  always  come 
out  ahead."  As  he  said  this  he  looked  in 
tently  at  Swan,  who  was  still  sitting  on 
the  pile  of  dirt.  He  noticed  for  the  first 
time  the  peculiar  look  in  his  eyes  and 
the  trembling  of  his  whole  body. 

Swan  sat  silent.  He  saw  the  dark  per 
spiring  bodies  of  the  Indians  who  were 
laying  ties,  and  his  lifelong  ambition  to 
be  a  great  engineer  suddenly  presented 
itself  to  him  in  the  old  strong  unemo 
tional  way. 

"  For  science  is  a  cruel  mistress.  She 
exacts  her  yearly  tribute  of  flesh  and 
blood  like  the  dragons  of  ancient  pa 
gan  mythology." 


The  Yearly  Tribute  225 

This  had  been  said  by  an  eminent 
scientist  who  had  addressed  his  gradua 
ting  class.  Swan  had  heard  it  then  and 
remembered  it  now.  He  clearly  remem 
bered  that  hot  June  morning  ten  years 
ago.  Some  young  maple  leaves  had  made 
a  lovely  pattern  on  the  blue  northern  sky 
outside  the  uncurtained  windows  of  the 
lecture  -  hall.  He  remembered  that  he 
had  looked  through  the  window  and 
vowed  that  he  would  never  give  up. 

He  organized  two  bands  of  men,  one  to 
work  by  moonlight  and  one  by  sunlight; 
but  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  overlook 
them  both,  day  and  night,  so  it  happened 
that  there  were  just  two  hours  in  the 
twenty-four  when  he  could  find  any  rest. 
This  was  when  the  daily  tropical  storm 
broke,  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  all  the 
workmen  scampered  for  shelter.  Swan 
crawled  into  a  shanty  the  men  had  put  up 
to  hold  their  tools,  and  wrapping  himself 
in  a  blanket,  slept  until  the  storm  was 
over.  That  is  to  say,  for  three  or  four 
times  he  slept,  but  gradually  he  found  it 
impossible  to  get  any  rest,  and  nobody 
knew  the  agonies  he  endured  fighting 
off  the  fever,  which  he  felt  had  marked 
him  for  its  own.  He  never  looked  for 
ward  longer  than  twelve  hours,  thinking 
always  that  the  next  day  would  decide 


226  Harper's  Novelettes 

his  fate,  and  the  next  day  never  did. 
"If  I  can  keep  it  off  till  to-morrow,  I 
guess  it  won't  come  back,"  he  repeated, 
mechanically,  standing  in  the  moonlight 
and  dosing  himself  and  bossing  the  men. 
But  in  the  morning  there  was  never  any 
abatement  in  those  deadly  symptoms 
which  told  him  that  the  period  of  incu 
bation  would  soon  be  over;  and  it  almost 
seemed  to  him  as  if  his  cruel  mistress 
was  saving  him  in  some  miraculous  way 
to  complete  her  work,  for  it  was  not 
until  the  evening  of  the  ninth  day,  when 
the  railroad  was  finished  and  the  last  man 
paid  off,  that  his  temperature  rose  to 
fever-heat,  his  pulse  quickened,  and  his 
tongue  became  congested,  and  this  de 
mon  of  the  tropical  swamp  claimed  him 
for  its  own. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  25th,  a 
Pacific  mail-steamer  touched  at  the  little 
port  of  Zacatula,  and  a  man  was  put  off 
who  came  down  from  San  Francisco  to 
do  business  for  the  company  in  the  event 
of  the  railroad  not  being  completed.  He 
was  greatly  astonished  when  Pilchard 
showed  him  that  the  last  day's  work  had 
been  done. 

"  Then,"  said  the  agent,  mopping  his 
perspiring  bald  head,  "  we  may  say  that 
you've  carried  out  the  contract  to  the 


The  Yearly  Tribute  227 

letter,  to  the  very  minute.  You  say  you 
only  paid  off  the  men  last  night?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Pilchard,  with  his  en 
gaging  smile,  and  casting  a  possessive 
glance  down  the  front  of  his  white 
trousers.  "  And  it  was  an  awful  rush  to 
get  the  joh  done."  But  in  spite  of  Pil 
chard's  sleek  figure  and  social  smile,  he 
looked  pale  that  morning.  The  hot  sun 
light  that  bathed  the  end  of  the  dock 
met  no  responsive  glow  in  his  cheeks. 

The  agent  hung  his  handkerchief  over 
the  top  of  a  post  to  dry  it,  and  looked 
more  closely  at  his  companion.  "  Any 
thing  the  matter?"  he  asked,  kindly. 
"  You  certainly  haven't  lost  anything  on 
the  job?" 

"  No— no."  Pilchard  brought  out  that 
ever-ready  smile  that  was  so  delightful. 
"  But  it's  about  time  to  go  home.  This 
is  a  terrible  climate.  We've  lost  every 
white  man  that  came  down,  eleven  all 
told,  except  myself  and — and — one  other, 
who's  dying  over  in  that  shed  now.  Maybe 
— maybe — he's  dead — "  Pilchard  jerked 
with  his  thumb  towards  a  shanty  just 
where  the  docks  joined  the  land.  .  .  . 

In  this  rude  shanty,  knocked  together 
by  the  workmen  to  hold  their  tools,  on 
a  heap  of  sacks  and  blankets,  Swan  lay 


228  Harper's  Novelettes 

as  he  had  dropped  the  night  before.  Pil 
chard  had  found  him  there,  and  the  full 
moon  coming  in  at  the  wide  opening  had 
revealed  a  fearful  sight — Swan  in  the 
throes  of  terrific  fever,  his  face  scarlet, 
his  eyes  ferrety  and  congested,  and  his 
swollen  tongue  lolling  between  his  lips. 
When  he  saw  Pilchard  he  asked  in  a 
strange  voice  for  water.  Pilchard 
brought  him  some  and  felt  his  forehead. 
It  seemed  on  fire. 

"  Pilchard,"  began  Swan,  in  a  deliberate 
voice,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  fight  off  the 
delirium,  "the  swamp  got  into  me,  after 
all.  I've  taken  the  fever." 

Pilchard,  appalled  by  the  terrible  sight 
before  him,  and  the  things  it  suggested, 
which  he  could  not  help  but  see,  leaned 
against  the  rude  wall,  and  for  once  his 
self-possession  deserted  him.  "  Swan," 
he  faltered,  "  Swan—for  God's  sake—" 

"  Hush,"  Swan  interposed,  in  that  same 
deliberate  voice.  "  Don't  lose  your  head. 
I'm  keeping  mine.  Am  I  talking  sense  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  Swan.    Perfectly  correctly." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do."  Swan 
spoke  more  and  more  slowly  as  the  fire 
mounted  to  his  brain  and  besieged  it. 
"  There's  every  symptom  of  fever.  You 
can't  deny  that." 

"  Symptoms,  Swan  ?     I  don't  see  any. 


The  Yearly  Tribute  229 

You're  worn  out,  poor  fellow.  That's 
all." 

"  Then  what's  this?"  Swan  opened  his 
mouth  and  showed  his  scarlet  tongue. 
"  And  this  ?"  He  tore  open  the  breast  of 
his  shirt  and  showed  the  congested  con 
dition  of  his  skin.  "  But  I'll  fight  death 
as  I  fought  the  fever!  I'm  not  going  to 
die.  There's  too  much  for  me  to  do  in 
the  world!  I'll  be  a  great  engineer.  I'll 
make  her  proud.  I  vowed  it  when  we 
looked  out  over  the  waves  and  I  wanted  to 
take  her  in  my  arms.  See  here !"  and  sud 
denly  seizing  a  pickaxe  from  the  ground 
beside  him,  he  swung  it  around  his  head 
and  sent  it  whizzing  past  Pilchard's  ear, 
out  through  the  opening  of  the  shanty. 
"  I've  got  my  muscle  and  I've  got  my 
brain  and  I'll  keep  my  life.  I  deserve  to 
live.  I  deserve  it  as  payment  for  putting 
the  job  through.  I'll  keep  my  wife  here, 
too,  here  in  the  engine-room,  with  the 
pines  behind  us,  and  I  can  look  after  the 
men  then.  Who's  that  leaning  against 
the  wall?  Pilchard?  Poor  fool!  Why 
did  you  boast  you  were  the  only  man  who 
had  ever  loved  a  woman  ?" 

"Me  boast!  Heaven  forbid,"  faltered 
Pilchard. 

"  Then,"  shouted  Swan,  suddenly  sit 
ting  up  and  striking  out  with  both  arms, 


230  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  take  these  things  away.  All  these  little 
black  things  that  are  pouring  over  me. 
It's  a  regular  shower.  It  must  be  a  whole 
city.  No!  No!  They're  sparks!  They're 
fire!  They  burn!  They  burn!  Take  the 
wheels  away  from  me!  They're  grinding 
me  like  corn — oh,  Lord!  it's  heavy,  it's 
heavy!  There,  there!  It  crushes  me! 
Now,  now  it's  over.  This  is — death — '' 
And  he  sank  back,  oppressed  by  a  sudden 
and  overwhelming  load  of  oblivion. 

Swan  grew  worse  toward  morning,  and 
though  the  disease  had  only  attacked  him 
at  sunset  the  night  before,  so  rapid  and 
terrible  were  its  onslaughts  that  by  the 
time  the  sun  rose  a  complete  physic 
al  collapse  had  occurred.  His  pulse  had 
fallen  below  normal,  and  his  skin  as- 
sumed  a  strange  yellow  hue,  the  color  of 
a  lemon,  and  in  these  signs  and  the  con 
stant  hiccough  which  convulsed  the  death- 
stricken  frame  Pilchard  guessed  proper 
ly  what  the  termination  must  be.  The 
end  would  come  easily.  Swan  had  ceased 
to  suffer. 

When  light  crept  gray  and  silent  into 
the  shanty,  Pilchard  stood  and  looked 
at  Swan's  prostrate  form.  No  sound 
came  to  them  but  the  gentle  lapping 
of  the  waves.  Sober  as  a  dove  Day 
hovered  in  the  sky,  and  that  solemn 


The  Yearly  Tribute  231 

change  which  is  Death  was  somewhere 
near,  hiding  and  waiting;  and  Pilchard 
and  Death  and  the  breaking  Day  were  for 
one  second  alone.  And  Pilchard  was 
overwhelmed  with  terror.  Some  spectre 
had  seized  him,  and  he  could  not  shake 
it  off.  He  looked  once  more  at  the  dying 
man,  at  his  closed  eyes  and  his  still  body, 
momentarily  convulsed  by  the  final  signs 
of  life,  like  a  great  piece  of  machinery 
when  the  steam  power  is  gradually  run 
ning  down.  Then  he  turned  and  broke 
away,  to  take  a  bath  and  to  take  a  drink 
and  then  go  to  meet  the  steamer  from 
San  Francisco.  .  .  . 

"Eleven?  You  don't  say.  Fever,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  Yes.  We  tackled  three  swamps  on  our 
way  down  from  Mexico." 

"  That  so  ?  Well,  it's  worth  some  sac 
rifice.  It's  a  good  job.  I  wouldn't  'a* 
undertaken  it  myself." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  it  again." 

They  walked  down  the  dock.  .  .  . 

Swan  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
through  the  wide  opening  of  the  shanty 
out  to  where  the  blazing  sun  struck  the 
hot  water  of  the  little  harbor.  He  hardly 
remembered  where  he  was.  Oh  yes !  He 
must  get  up  and  go  down-town.  In  a 


232  Harper's  Novelettes 

minute,  when  he  was  fully  awake.  And 
he  closed  his  eyes  again  and  heard  the  ac 
customed  whir  of  machinery,  and  knew 
that  he  was  in  the  engine-room.  One  of 
the  workmen  needed  to  be  spoken  to;  he 
was  the  filthiest  of  the  lot,  and  Swan  was 
the  only  man  who  could  control  him. 
Suddenly  Swan  opened  his  eyes  again 
and  saw  that  this  same  workman  had  en 
tered  the  shanty  and  was  standing  be 
side  him.  He  instantly  recognized  the 
man's  greasy  black  shirt. 

"For  science  is  a  cruel  mistress,"  the 
man  said.  "  She  exacts  her  yearly  tribute 
of  flesh  and  blood." 

But,  singularly  enough,  these  words 
meant  something  entirely  different.  Swan 
looked  curiously  at  the  workman  and  saw 
that  he  too  was  really  somebody  else. 
The  man  smiled  and,  leaning  over,  gently 
raised  him  up,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  Swan  felt  himself  encircled  by 
a  woman's  arms,  and  he  tasted  a  strange, 
delicious  joy  awakening  deep  within  him 
that  knowledge  of  reciprocal  love  which 
slumbers  in  the  heart  of  every  man. 

"  And  you  did  it  all  for  me,"  she  said. 

"Did  what?"  he  asked  her. 

"Built  the  road?" 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  closing  his  eyes 
again,  filled  with  this  new  strange  joy. 


The  Yearly  Tribute  233 

"And  now  we'll  go  home  together  to 
the  North,  where  the  maple  leaves  make  a 
lovely  pattern  against  the  blue  sky." 

He  knew  nothing  for  a  minute,  and 
then  she  spoke  again : 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  job.  I'll  see  that  you 
get  pushed  along.  The  company  '11  have 
plenty  more  work;  big  pay,  too.  This 
business  has  made  your  name.  You're  a 
wonderful  fellow!  You  say  you  worked 
night  as  well  as  day?" 

"  For  eight  days,  yes." 

It  was  Pilchard's  voice.  He  was  talk 
ing  to  another  man.  They  were  leaning 
heavily  against  the  rough  wall  of  Swan's 
shanty.  A  horrible  sensation  came  over 
the  sick  man,  that  sensation  experienced 
by  men  who  emerge  from  some  unnatural 
mental  condition,  who  are  recalled  by  one 
sentence,  often  by  one  word,  which  acts 
like  a  key  and  opens  again  to  their  terri 
fied  vision  the  horrible  realities  of  actual 
life.  Swan  raised  his  arms  to  bring  that 
woman's  face  close  to  his,  but  he  could 
not  find  it.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  tears 
of  weakness  watered  his  cheeks.  He  was 
alone  in  the  hovel  knocked  together  by 
the  men  to  hold  their  tools,  and  the  work 
for  which  he  had  given  his  life  was  being 
claimed  outside  by  another  man.  .  .  . 

The  agent  leaned  against  the  side  of 


234  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  shanty,  gazing  reflectively  at  his 
steamer,  which  was  anchored  half  a  mile 
from  shore.  "  I'm  going  clear  round  to 
New  York.  You'd  better  get  aboard  and 
come  with  me,"  he  proposed  to  Pilchard, 
to  whom  he  had  taken  a  fancy.  "  Good 
Lord!"  he  suddenly  shouted,  leaping  for 
ward.  "  Is  this  the  shed  where  you  said 
a  workman  was  dying  of  fever?  Let's 
get  out  quick  or  we'll  take  the  infection." 

But  Pilchard,  pale  as  death,  put  up  a 
warning  hand.  "  Yes,  let's  clear  out 
— let's  get  to  sea  before  I  go  crazy! 
But  —  but  —  don't  speak  so  loud.  He 
may  hear!" 

He  had  heard  every  word.  His  facul 
ties,  numb  with  death,  sprang  instantly 
into  life.  He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  left 
the  shanty,  momentarily  endowed  with 
his  full  strength,  and  facing  the  two  men, 
spoke  three  times :  "  My  work !  My  work ! 
My  work!"  His  eyes  were  on  Pilchard 
all  the  time,  and  that  look  pierced  like  a 
sword;  it  penetrated  to  the  very  founda 
tions  of  his  being.  .  .  . 

Pilchard  caught  the  body  as  it  fell  and 
lowered  it  to  the  ground,  and  then  looked 
at  the  agent  with  a  scared  face  to  see  how 
much  he  knew.  The  agent  had  leaped 
still  farther  away,  and  now  was  crouch- 


The  Yearly  Tribute  235 

ing,  livid  with  fear,  before  this  man 
whose  last  words  had  been  words  of  de 
lirium.  No,  he  knew  nothing.  Pilchard 
alone  knew  the  extent  of  his  own  deceit, 
which  dead  lips  could  never  disclose.  He 
alone  knew  of  that  half-formed  idea  he 
had  not  dared  to  mature,  which  had 
come  to  him  a  year  ago  when  he  looked 
at  Swan's  resolute  face  in  the  engine- 
room  ;  and  he  alone  in  all  the  world  could 
ever  know  of  the  terror  which  had  pos 
sessed  him  at  daybreak  in  the  shanty 
when  he  had  turned  in  a  panic  and 
run  away — from  what?  .  .  . 


A  Matter  of   Rivalry 

BY   OCTAVE   THANET 

JT  was  the  fifth  afternoon  of  St.  Kuna- 
gunda's  fair.  An  interlude  of  semi- 
rest  had  come  between  the  clearing  up 
last  night's  debris  of  crowd  and  traffic, 
which  had  filled  the  morning,  and  the 
renewed  crowd  and  traffic  that  would 
come  with  the  lamps.  The  tired  elderly 
women  in  charge  of  the  supper  had  sunk 
into  chairs  before  their  clean  linen  and 
dazzling  white  stone-china  dishes  and 
fresh  bunches  of  lilacs.  The  pretty 
young  girls  at  the  "  fancy  table "  were 
laughing  and  prattling  rather  loudly 
with  two  amiable  young  men  who  had 
been  tacking  home-made  lace  handker 
chiefs  and  embroidered  "  art  centres  "  in 
the  vacant  spaces  left  on  the  pink  cam 
bric  wall  by  the  departure  of  last  night's 
purchases.  A  comely  matron  kept  guard 
simultaneously  over  the  useful  but  not 
perilously  alluring  wares  of  the  "  house 
hold  table  "  and  the  adjacent  temptations 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  237 

of  the  flower-stand  and  the  candy-booth. 
The  last  was  indeed  fair  to  see,  having 
a  magnificent  pyramid  of  pop-corn  balls 
and  entrancing  heaps  of  bright-colored 
home-made  French  candy;  and  round 
and  round  its  delights  prowled  a  chubby 
and  wistful  boy,  with  hands  in  his  pen 
niless  pockets,  waiting  for  the  chancel 
lor  of  the  exchequer. 

Across  the  hall,  the  walls  whereof  were 
lavishly  decked  with  red,  white,  and  blue 
festoons  of  cambric,  and  had  the  green 
and  gold  of  Erin's  flag  intertwined  with 
the  yellow  and  black  of  Germany,  stood 
a  table  which  had  been  the  centre  of  in 
terest  for  four  nights,  but  which  now  was 
entirely  deserted.  There  was  no  glory 
of  color  or  pomp  of  bedizenment  about 
it;  nothing  more  taking  to  the  eye  than 
a  ballot-box  and  a  small  show-case  (the 
contents  of  the  latter  draped  in  news 
papers  at  the  present)  and  a  neatly  let 
tered  sign  above  a  blackboard,  to  one 
side.  The  sign  simply  demanded,  "  Vote 
Here!"  The  blackboard  in  less  trim 
script  announced  that  "  For  most  popu 
lar  business  man  "  Mr.  Timothy  G.  Fin- 
nerty  had  305  votes,  and  three  or  four 
other  candidates  so  few  that  there  was 
no  interest  in  deciphering  the  chalk  fig 
ures  ;  and  that  "  For  most  popular  young 
16 


238  Harper's  Novelettes 

lady  "  Miss  Norah  Murray  had  842  votes, 
and  Miss  Freda  Berglund  had  603. 
At  intervals  some  one  of  the  score  of 
people  in  the  hall  would  saunter  up  to 
the  show-case  or  to  the  blackboard,  to 
peer  into  the  one  or  to  study  the  figures 
on  the  other — although,  really,  there  was 
no  one  in  the  hall  who  did  not  know 
every  line  on  the  board,  and  who  had  not 
seen  both  the  gold  watch  and  the  gold- 
headed  cane  of  the  show-case.  Two 
women  came  from  different  quarters  of 
the  room  at  the  same  instant  to  look  at 
the  blackboard.  One  was  a  comely  dame 
in  a  silken  gown  that  rustled  and  glit 
tered  with  jet.  She  had  just  entered  the 
hall,  and  was  a  little  flushed  with  the 
climb  up  the  stairs.  The  other  was  a 
stunted,  wiry  little  Irish  woman  in  black 
weeds  of  ancient  make.  She  caught 
sight  of  the  one  in  silk  attire  and  paused. 
The  first  -  comer  also  paused.  Her  color 
deepened;  her  head  erected  itself  more 
proudly  on  her  shoulders.  Then  she  con 
tinued  her  progress,  halting,  with  a  dig 
nified  and  elegant  air,  before  the  black 
board.  The  little  Irish  woman  tossed 
her  own  head  and  appeared  about  to  fol 
low;  however,  her  intention  changed  at 
a  few  words  from  the  guardian ,,» of  the 
apron  table.  She  inclined  her  head,  and 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  239 

with  a  glance  of  scorn  at  the  silken  back 
passed  on  over  to  the  aprons  and  quilts. 

The  matrons  at  the  supper  -  table  had 
viewed  the  incident  with  interest.  A 
little  sigh  of  relief  or  regret  rippled  about 
the  board. 

"'Tis  a  great  pity,  that's  sure,"  said 
one. 

"  I  was  there  when  they  had  the  words," 
said  another.  "Mrs.  Conner  was  saying 
this  voting  business  was  all  wrong — " 

"  Well,  sure  she  ain't  far  out  of  the 
way,  with  this  time,"  interjected  a  voice; 
"bad  blood  more'n  in  this  instance  it's 
raised;  the  whole  town's  taking  sides  on 
it,  and  there  was  two  fights  yesterday. 
Why  didn't  they  jest  raffle  the  watch  off 
decent  and  peaceable?" 

"  There's  some  objects  to  raffling." 

"  There's  some  objects  to  drinking  tea 
an'  coffee,  they're  so  bigoted!  In  a  raffle 
there's  nobody  pays  more'n  their  quarter, 
or  maybe  a  dollar  or  two — " 

"  And  that's  it.  Look  at  the  power  o' 
money  we're  gettin',  Mrs.  O'Brien  dear! 
We'd  niver  'a'  got  nigh  on  to  four  hun 
dred  dollars  for  a  gold  watch  rafflin';  and 
well  you  know  it!" 

"Ma^be,"  agreed  Mrs.  O'Brien,  grim 
ly,  "  but  neither  would  we  have  got  fight- 
in'  out  of  the  church  and  fightin'  in  it; 


240  Harper's  Novelettes 

nor  Pat  Barnes  be  having  his  head  broke. 
'Twas  hurted  awful  bad  he  was.  His  own 
mother  told  me;  and  she  said  Fritz  Mil 
ler  was  sick  in  bed  from  it ;  Pat  paid  him 
well  for  talkin'  down  ould  Ireland;  and 
poor  Terry  Elanagin,  he  lost  his  job  at 
the  saw-mill  for  maddin'  the  boss  that's 
Dutch,  and  infidel  Dutch  at  that;  and 
there's  quarrels  on  ivery  side,  God  for 
give  'em!  They  talk  of  it  at  the  stores, 
and  they  talk  of  it  at  the  saloon,  where 
they  do  be  going  too  often  to  talk  it;  and 
'tis  a  shame  an'  a  disgrace,  down  to  that 
saloon  the  dirty  Dutchman — " 

"  Whisht!"  three  or  four  mouths  puck 
ered  in  warning,  and  Mrs.  O'Brien  caught 
the  smouldering  gaze  of  a  flaxen-haired 
woman  in  very  full  black  skirts  and 
black  basque  of  an  antique  cut,  who  had 
but  now  approached  the  group;  with  her 
race's  nimbleness  of  wit  she  added, "  Sure 
there's  dirty  Germans  and  there's  dirty 
Irish." 

"Dere  is,"  agreed  the  new-comer,  with 
displeasing  alacrity,  "  und  some  is  in  dis 
parish  und  dis  sodality.  I  vas  seen  dem 
viping  dishes  mit  a  newsbaber.  Dot's  so. 
Yesterday  night." 

An  electric  thrill  ran  through  the  cir 
cle,  and  two  matrons,  suddenly  very  red, 
answered  at  once: 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  241 

"  Would  you  have  us  wipe  them  on  our 
handkerchiefs  ?  The  towels  were  all 
gone!" 

"'Twas  the  awful  crowd  did  it;  an' 
'twas  only  some  saucers  for  the  ice 
cream." 

Mrs.  O'Brien  waved  her  hands,  very 
clean,  not  very  shapely,  and  worn  by 
many  an  honest  day's  toil,  persuading 
and  pleading  for  peace  at  once.  "  Sure," 
says  she,  "  if  you'd  wurrk  at  fairs  you'd 
know  that  you  can't  be  doing  things  like 
you'd  do  them  at  home;  and  'twas  only 
for  a  minit  they  wiped  the  saucers  with 
the  paper  napkins,  clean  tishy  -  paper 
napkins,  Mrs.  Orendorf ;  'twas  only  two 
or  three  saucers  got  wiped  with  the  news 
paper,  because  the  napkins  was  give  out 
and  they  was  shrieking  and  clamoring 
for  saucers;  and  they're  terrible,  them 
young  girls!  waving  their  hands  and 
jumpin'  an'  squealin'.  'Me  first,  Mrs. 
O'Brien!'  'It's  my  turn,  Mrs.  O'Brien!' 
'  Oh,  Mrs.  O'Brien,  wait  on  me.  I've 
got  six  people  haven't  had  a  bite  in  half 
an  hour;  and  they're  so  cross!'  Till  your 
mind's  goin'!  No  doubt  we're  makin' 
money,  but  I'm  for  a  smaller  crowd  an' 
more  good  falein'." 

"  It's  for  der  voting  dey  kooms,"  grum 
bled  the  German  woman,  only  half  paci- 


242  Harper's  Novelettes 

fied.  "Dot  vas  bad  mistake  haf  dot 
votin'.  Vot  vas  dot  dirty  Deutchman  you 
call  him  do  dot  make  you  so  mad  ?" 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  so  much9' — Mrs.  O'Brien 
was  still  bent  on  peace — "he  jist  tele 
phoned  to  the  next  door  an'  got  the  re 
turns,  as  he  called  them,  and  had  'em 
posted  up  in  his  saloon.  An'  if  they  was 
daughters  of  mine — I  'ain't  got  anny 
daughters,  praise  God!  for  since  I  seen 
the  way  these  waiters  go  on,  I'm  mis- 
doubtin'  I  niver  could  manage  thim — 
but  if  they  was  daughters  of  mine, 
'twould  be  the  sorry  day  for  me  whin 
they'd  their  names  posted  up  in  a  sa 
loon!" 

"  Meine  fader  in  der  old  country  kept 
a  saloon."  said  the  German  woman,  with 
extreme  dryness  of  accent,  "und  does 
you  mean  to  say  vun  vurd  against  Freda 
Berglund?" 

"  No,  indade,"  cried  Mrs.  O'Brien. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  one  word 
against  Norah  Murray?"  a  bolder  parti 
san  on  the  Celtic  side  struck  in,  with  a 
determined  air.  Three  or  four  voices 
murmured  assent. 

The  German  stood  her  ground.  "I 
nef er  seen  her  till  yesterday "  —  thus 
without  committing  direct  assault  on  the 
Murray  supporters  she  avoided  conces- 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  243 

sion ;  "  all  I  know  of  her  is  dot  she  nefer 
haf  dot  gold  vatch!" 

"  Then  you  know  more  than  we  do. 
Norah's  ahead,  and  she'll  be  more  ahead 
this  evening,"  retorted  a  Murray  voter; 
"  there's  plenty  more  money  to  spend  for 
old  Ireland — ain't  there,  ladies?" 

"  Whisht !"  called  the  peace-maker,  in 
her  turn.  "  Ain't  it  easy  to  see  how 
Mrs.  Conner  and  Mrs.  Finn  come  to 
words  and  hard  falein'  when  we're  nigh 
that  same  ourselves,  we  that  determined 
to  kape  out  of  the  worry  ?  They  are  both 
awful  nice,  pretty  young  ladies,  and  I'm 
sorry  such  a  question  come  up  between 
them;  and  'tis  dreadful,  O'Brien  says, 
the  way  the  young  men  was  spinding 
their  money  for  Norah  last  night.  Sure, 
an'  it  is  that.  'Tis  all  a  bad  thing;  I 
think  that  like  Mrs.  Conner." 

Mrs.  Orendorf  was  unable  to  adjust 
her  mental  view  to  the  varying  argu 
ment;  she  cast  a  sullen  and  puzzled  eye 
on  the  amiable  Irish  woman,  and  said, 
grimly : 

"It  isn't  joost  yoong  mans  vot  kan 
spend  money.  Freda  don't  have  got  no 
yoong  mans,  'cause  her  Schatz  vent  to 
der  var  und  die  py  der  fever  in  Flori 
da—" 

"  Sure  he  did  that !"  cried  Mrs.  OBrien, 


244  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  an'  'twas  a  fine  man  an'  a  fine  carpenter 
he  was.  Aw,  the  poor  girl!  I  mind  how 
she  looked  the  day  Company  E  marched 
out  of  town,  him  turnin'  his  eyes  up 
sidewises,  an'  her  white  as  paper  but 
a-smilin' !" 

"  God  pity  her !"  chimed  in  another 
matron,  with  the  ready  response  to  sym 
pathy  of  the  Celt.  There  was  a  little 
murmur  of  assent.  Mrs.  Orendorf's 
swelling  crest  fell  a  little;  her  tone  was 
softer. 

"  But  Freda  got  a  fader,  a  goot  man, 
too  goot  and  kind;  he  say  he  vunt  haf 
his  dochter  look  down  on  like  she  don't 
got  no  friends.  He  go  and  mortgage  his 
farm,  und  he  got  drie — tree  hunterd  dol 
lar" — she  tapped  the  sum  off  her  palm 
with  solemn  deliberation — "und  he  svear 
he  vill  in  der  votin'  all,  all  spend,  an' 
sie  git  dot  vatch.  Ach  Himmel!  er  ist 
verrucJct!  He  say  he  got  his  pension  and 
he  got  der  insure  on  his  life,  und  he 
'ain't  got  nobody  'cept  Freda,  und  he 
vunt  haf  Freda  look  down  on.  Und  sie 
don't  know.  Mans  don't  can  talk  mit 
him;  he  git  mad.  He  git  mad  py  me 
'cause  I  talk.  Dot's  vat  der  fine  votin' 
do!" 

A  little  gasp  from  the  audience  meant 
more  than  agreement;  their  eyes  ran  to 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  245 

Mrs.  O'Brien,  who  faced  the  German  and 
could  see  what  they  saw;  then  back  of 
Mrs.  Orendorf  to  the  crimson  face  of  a 
young  girl.  Mutely  they  signalled  con 
sternation. 

But  the  young  girl  did  not  speak;  she 
walked  away  quickly,  not  turning  her 
head  as  she  passed  the  voting-booth.  She 
was  a  pretty  girl,  with  fresh  skin,  the 
whiter  and  fresher  against  her  abundant 
silky  black  hair  and  black-lashed  violet 
eyes.  She  carried  her  dainty  head  a  lit 
tle  haughtily,  but  her  soft  eyes  had  a 
wistful  sweetness.  Her  big  flowered  hat 
and  her  white  gown,  brightened  by  blue 
ribbons,  were  as  fresh  as  her  skin  and 
became  her  rich  beauty.  She  walked 
with  the  natural  light  grace  often  seen 
in  girls  of  her  race,  whatever  their  class. 
No  one  could  watch  the  winsome  little 
figure  pass  and  not  feel  the  charm  of 
youth  and  frank  innocence  and  immeas 
urable  hopes.  More  than  one  pair  of  el 
derly  eyes  that  had  seen  the  glory  and 
freshness  of  the  dream  fade  followed  it 
kindly  and  with  a  pensive  pride. 

"Ain't  she  pretty  and  slim!"  sighed 
a  stout  lady  in  silk  (Mrs.  Conner,  the 
most  important  supporter  of  the  parish, 
no  less),  "and  think  of  me  having  a 
waist  as  little  as  hers  when  I  was  mar- 


246  Harper's  Novelettes 

ried!  But  I  wish  she  hadn't  let  them 
drag  her  into  this  voting  business,  for 
it  has  caused  trouble." 

"  Norah's  as  good  and  sweet's  she's 
pretty,"  another  elderly  woman  replied. 
"  Just  to  think  of  that  young  thing  sup 
porting  her  mother  and  educating  her 
brother  for  a  priest  with  only  those  pret 
ty  little  hands!  But  she  won't  be  doing 
it  long  if  the  boys  can  one  of  them  get 
their  way.  And  what  will  we  do  for  a 
dress-maker  then?  We  never  did  have 
such  a  stylish  one!" 

"That's  so,"  Mrs.  Conner  agreed,  cor 
dially;  "  she's  the  only  one  I  ever  went  to 
didn't  make  me  look  fleshier  than  I  am. 
But  I  say  it  is  all  the  more  shame  to 
make  that  innocent  young  creature  talk 
ed  about  and  fought  over,  and  have  jokes 
made  in  the  saloon  and  at  the  stores,  and 
quarrels  outside  the  parish  and  in  it, 
too." 

"  I  guess  it  has  gone  farther  than  we 
thought,"  said  the  other.  "  Look !  there's 
Father  Kelly  and  the  Vicar-General; 
they're  looking  at  the  blackboard.  I  wish 
I  could  hear  what  they  are  saying." 

Norah,  indeed,  was  the  only  person  who 
did  not  look  at  the  two  quiet  gentlemen 
before  the  blackboard,  curiously,  and 
wonder  the  same,  since  the  voting-booth 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry          247 

had  become  a  firebrand  menacing  the 
peace  of  the  parish.  Norah  was  too  busy 
with  her  own  thoughts  even  to  see  them; 
she  only  wanted  to  get  past  her  well- 
wishers  and  be  alone  with  her  perplexi 
ties.  If  she  did  not  see  her  spiritual 
guides,  they  saw  her,  and  Father  Kelly's 
tired  face  brightened.  "  You  really  can't 
blame  the  boys,"  he  said,  smiling;  "and 
she's  as  good  a  daughter  and  sister,  and 
as  good  a  girl,  too,  as  ever  stepped." 

The  Vicar-General  smiled  faintly,  but 
his  eyes  were  absent.  The  parish  at 
Clover  Hill  was  the  newest  in  the  diocese 
— a  feeble  folk  struggling  to  build  a 
church,  or  rather  help  build  it,  and  hold 
ing  its  first  bazar.  There  were  no  rich 
people  of  their  faith — unless  one  except 
the  Conners,  who  owned  the  saw -mill 
and  were  well-to-do — not  even  many  poor 
to  club  their  mites;  more  disheartening 
yet,  the  parish  roll  held  about  an  equal 
proportion  of  Irish  and  German  names. 
The  Vicar-General  and  the  Bishop  shook 
their  heads  at  the  yoking  of  the  two 
races;  but  there  was  no  church  nearer 
than  Father  Kelly's,  five  miles  away,  and 
Father  Kelly  was  not  young,  and  his  own 
great  parish  growing  all  the  time;  so  the 
parish  was  made,  and  a  young  American 
priest,  who  had  more  sense  than  always 


248  Harper's  Novelettes 

goes  with  burning  enthusiasm,  was  sent 
to  guide  the  souls  at  Clover  Hill  and 
keep  the  peace.  He  kept  it  until  the  fair, 
when  in  an  evil  hour  he  consented  to  the 
voting-booth.  He  expected — they  all  ex 
pected — that  the  excitement  would  focus 
on  the  gold-headed  cane,  and  that  Mr. 
Michael  Conner  would  lead  the  poll,  al 
though  the  popular  Finnerty  might  give 
him  a  pretty  race  for  his  honors;  the 
gold  watch  was  but  an  incidental  attrac 
tion  to  please  the  young  people  and  at 
tract  outsiders;  nor  was  there  any  sug 
gestion  of  names.  Alas!  Michael  Con 
ner,  a  blunt  man,  dubbed  the  voting 

scheme  a   "d weather-breeder,"  and 

would  not  give  the  use  of  his  name; 
hence  there  was  a  walkaway  for  Fin 
nerty;  and  somehow,  before  any  of  the 
elders  quite  realized  how  it  began,  the 
Irish  girl  and  the  German  girl  were  un 
consciously  setting  the  whole  town  by 
the  ears,  and  imported  voters  from  Fa 
ther  Kelly's  were  joyously  mixing  in  the 
fight. 

"  There's  no  question  about  the  need 
of  stopping  it,"  said  the  Vicar-General, 
continuing  his  own  train  of  thought 
aloud,  "but  how  are  we  to  do  it?  The 
feeling  is  a  perfect  dynamite  factory 
now,  and  the  least  stumble  on  our  part 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  249 

will  bring  an  explosion.  If  we  tried  to 
give  them  the  money  back  —  and  you 
know  women  have  a  tight  grip  on  money 
— we  shouldn't  know  where  to  give  it. 
Positively  we're  like  the  family  of  the 
poor  fellow  who  had  the  fit — one  doctor 
said  it  would  kill  him  to  bring  him  to 
his  senses,  and  the  other  said  he  would 
die  if  they  didn't!" 

"  And  Father  Martin  safe  in  his  bed 
with  pneumonia!"  groaned  Father  Kelly. 

Norah  had  found  her  progress  barred 
by  new-comers,  and  she  had  fled  back  to 
avoid  them.  Her  cheeks  reddened  again, 
and  the  tears  burned  her  eyelids;  she 
went  past  too  fast  for  more  than  a  hur 
ried  salutation,  at  which  Father  Kelly 
shook  his  head.  "That's  the  girl,  isn't 
it  ?"  said  the  Vicar-General.  "  I'm  afraid 
the  situation  is  a  little  too  much  for  her, 
too;  she  looks  excited." 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit,"  cried  Father 
Kelly,  undaunted ;  "  she's  a  bit  impul 
sive,  but  she's  got  good  sense." 

"  She  wears  too  much  jewelry." 

Norah  did  not  hear  this;  she  was  out 
of  the  hall,  speeding  back  to  Mrs.  Con 
ner's  gown  that  awaited  her  finishing 
touches.  Her  mother,  a  little  creature 
with  sweet  temper  that  made  amends  for 
an  entire  lack  of  energy,  was  rocking 


250  Harper's  Novelettes 

over  some  bastings,  sawing  the  air  with 
her  forefinger  as  she  discoursed  on  the 
weighty  splendor  of  the  gold  watch  and 
chain,  ending  in  gush  of  parental  com 
placency,  "And  Norah  says  it  '11  be  as 
much  mine  's  hers!" 

Norah  could  hear  her  chirping  on,  hap 
pily,  while  she  laid  away  her  hat  in  the 
bandbox  and  girt  herself  with  a  protect 
ing  apron. 

The  talk  turned  her  cold.  "It  ain't 
only  for  myself  I  want  it,"  she  declared 
to  an  invisible  suggester,  "  though  I  do 
want  something  real.  I  never  had  a  real 
gold  chain,  or  even  a  real  gold  breastpin, 
in  my  life — or  a  ring.  Oh,  I  did  want 
one!"  She  looked  scornfully  at  the  gay 
prism  gleaming  from  her  pretty  fingers 
(fingers  as  daintily  kept  as  any  lady's) ; 
they  had  flashed  like  rubies  and  sap 
phires  and  diamonds  from  the  white  vel 
vet  drifts  of  the  show-case  in  the  great 
department  store  where  she  bought  them 
when  she  went  to  the  city;  but  now  they 
were  cheapened  and  dimmed  by  her  mem 
ories  of  the  "  real  "  watch.  She  peeled 
them  roughly  from  her  hands. 

She  had  no  morsel  of  news  ready  for 
the  hungry  ears  awaiting  her.  To  her 
mother's  questions  she  answered  briefly 
that  the  only  thing  she  heard  was  that 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  251 

Freda  Berglund  would  have  a  great  num 
ber  of  new  votes  in  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Murray  tossed  back  a  confident: 
"Let  her!  I  know  some  boys  that's  go 
ing  to  go  this  night,  with  a  hundred  dol 
lars  in  their  pockets  each  of  'em.  Let  her 
bring  on  her  votes,  I  say.  It's  a  good 
cause  gits  the  money.  But  it's  you'll  be 
wearin'  the  watch  next  Sunday,  and  not 
Freda  Berglund!" 

Norah  bit  her  lip.  She  was  not  used 
to  silence,  but  she  sewed  silently  (Norah, 
who  was  so  sweet-tempered  that  she  had 
been  known  to  work  a  whole  day  with  a 
machine  that  skipped  stitches,  never  get 
ting  cross,  and  stopping  four  times  to 
wrestle  with  the  bobbin  before  she  sub 
dued  it).  Her  mother  did  not  know  what 
to  make  of  her.  Her  own  nickering  com 
plaints  of  Norah's  "  glumness  "  sank  into 
dumb  anxiety.  She  stole  timid  glances 
at  the  bowed  black  head  and  the  frown 
ing  black  brows;  after  a  glance  she  would 
sigh,  a  prolonged,  patient  sigh.  There 
are  times  when  a  sigh  is  to  strained 
nerves  like  a  blast  of  hot  air  on  a  burn. 
Norah  jumped  up  and  ran  away  from  her 
own  irritation  before  it  exploded.  She 
made  a  pretext  of  looking  at  her  skirt 
(which  was  new)  in  the  parlor  cheval- 
glass;  but  in  the  parlor,  behind  the  door, 


252  Harper's  Novelettes 

she  did  not  give  a  glance  to  the  picture 
in  the  mirror.  The  "  pire  glass,"  as  Mrs. 
Murray  called  it,  was  a  relic  of  the  fami 
ly's  better  days  when  Norah's  father  was 
alive  and  kept  a  grocery-store  and  owned 
a  horse  and  wagon;  its  florid  frame  of 
black-walnut  etched  with  gilt,  its  tall 
mirror,  very  little  marred  by  water-spots 
on  the  back,  long  had  been  reverently  ad 
mired  by  Norah;  it  showed  that  the 
family  had  "  had  things  " ;  but  she  passed 
it  without  a  glance,  just  as  she  passed 
the  cabinet  organ  decked  in  flowered 
plush  which  she  had  bought  with  her  own 
savings.  Never  until  that  day  had  she 
stood  in  the  parlor  without  a  sensation 
of  pleasure  over  its  fresh  paint  and  paper 
and  the  many  gilt  frames  on  the  wall; 
but  to-day  she  went,  unnoting,  to  the 
crayon  picture  of  a  man,  and  looked 
through  tears  at  a  plain,  smiling,  kindly 
face. 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  died,"  was  all  she 
said ;  but  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks 
and  her  frame  shook  with  sobs  that  she 
forced  to  be  noiseless.  At  last  she  dried 
her  wet  cheeks  and  tossed  her  head.  "  I 
don't  see  that  I  need  do  anything"  she 
muttered,  while  she  hurried  round  the 
house  outside,  in  order  that  she  might 
reach  the  bedroom  and  efface  the  traces 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  253 

of  her  weeping.  "  I'm  a  great  fool  to 
think  of  doing  anything,"  she  declared. 
"  I  didn't  put  myself  up,  and  I  won't  put 
myself  down — and  disappoint  mother  and 
all  my  friends.  It's  none  of  my  busi 
ness."  Therewith  she  assumed  a  light 
and  cheerful  air,  which  she  carried  se 
curely  through  the  remainder  of  the  af 
ternoon. 

The  fifth  evening  of  St.  Kunagunda's 
fair  opened  with  a  stifling  crowd.  Prot 
estants,  Catholics,  and  Germans  who 
never  had  seen  the  interior  of  an  Amer 
ican  church  jostled  the  buyers  at  the 
booths,  and  the  faithful  dutifully  ate 
turkey  and  cold  rolls  for  the  fifth  time  at 
the  supper-tables.  The  outsiders  did  not 
linger  at  the  booths;  they  were  come  to 
vote  or  to  witness  the  voting,  and  their 
jests  and  comments  buzzed  noisily  above 
the  talk.  Every  moment  the  note  of  the 
buzz  grew  more  hostile.  More  than  a 
few  ears  were  tingling;  at  every  turn 
there  were  scowls  and  sullen  eyes  and 
ugly  smiles.  The  matrons'  cheeks  were 
burning;  their  eyes  flashed;  every  now 
and  again  one  of  their  voices  shrilled  de 
fiantly  above  the  hoarse  hum.  of  the 
crowd.  The  young  Irish  girls  were  laugh 
ing,  enjoying  the  excitement,  and  admir- 
17 


254  Harper's  Novelettes 

ing  the  young  men  flaunting  their  bank 
notes  with  the  swing  of  their  father's 
shillalahs.  The  young  German  girls 
curled  their  lips  and  whispered  together. 
There  was  a  significant  herding  of  the 
contending  races  apart,  while  the  visit 
ing  Anglo-Saxons  wore  an  air  of  safe 
and  dispassionate  enjoyment,  such  as 
pertains  of  right  to  the  boy  on  the  fence 
waiting  for  the  fight. 

Norah  Murray  had  a  circle  of  young 
men  about  her,  who  laughed  rapturously 
at  her  sallies.  She  wore  her  chain  and  a 
new  rhinestone  brooch  and  all  her  rings. 
She  looked  very  handsome  with  her 
flushed  cheeks  and  bright  eyes.  She 
raised  her  voice  to  be  heard  above  the 
din.  Mrs.  Murray's  new  bonnet  nodded 
its  red  roses  and  black  ostrich  tips  among 
the  lace  handkerchiefs  and  embroidery 
of  the  fancy  table — she  being  enthroned 
on  the  step-ladder  for  lack  of  other  seat 
— and  her  delighted  eyes  ran  from  her 
daughter  to  the  voting  blackboard.  She 
waved  a  spangled  fan  and  smiled  buoy 
antly  at  every  familiar  face,  whether 
turned  towards  her  in  recognition  or 
not.  Mrs.  O'Brien,  who  had  slipped  away 
from  the  kitchen  to  be  sure  the  lamps 
were  not  smoking,  stopped  a  moment  be 
side  her.  Mrs.  O'Brien  looked  tired  and 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  255 

worried  when  she  let  her  own  smile  of 
greeting  slip  from  her  face.  A  tinge 
of  the  same  expression  was  on  Father 
Kelly's  kind  old  countenance,  but  the 
Vicar  -  General's  features  were  as  in 
scrutable  as  a  doctor's.  He  had  made  a 
genial  procession  through  the  room,  dis 
tributing  the  merited  praise  at  each 
booth,  and  appreciably  softening  the  at 
mosphere  by  his  presence.  He  halted  op 
posite  Norah's  party.  Father  Kelly's  gaze 
grew  anxious.  "  I  mind  me,"  said  he — 
"  I  mind  me  of  the  child  when  her  father 
died  —  not  six  she  was  —  holding  her 
mother's  hand,  not  weeping  herself,  the 
creature,  just  stroking  her  mother's 
hand  and  petting  her;  and  holding  the 
baby,  the  one  that's  off  to  the  seminary 
now.  Her  father  was  an  honest  man. 
He  failed  once,  and  then  paid  every  dol 
lar  with  interest  —  an  honest  man.  I 
mind  me  of  little  Norah  at  her  first  com 
munion — r 

The  Vicar-General  smiled.  "Kelly, 
you're  a  good  fellow,"  said  he,  not  re 
moving  his  glance  from  Norah's  excited 
face. 

"  She'll  come  out  all  right,  all  right," 
said  Father  Kelly,  with  the  hammer-like 
gesture  of  his  right  fist  which  his  congre 
gation  knew  well  for  a  storm  signal. 


256  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  She's  a  good  girl.  This  is  no  fault  of 
hers,  this  foolish  contraption  to  make 
money;  I'm  one  with  Conner,  there;  but 
the  girls  aren't  to  blame.  Freda's  a  good 
girl,  too.  That's  she  coming." 

The  German  heroine  of  this  minia 
ture  Nibelungenlied  was  tall  and  slender, 
fair  haired  and  fair  faced.  Her  face 
wore  a  placid  air;  she  looked  perfectly 
serene  and  had  assumed  unconsciousness 
as  a  garment;  she  did  not  talk,  only 
faintly  smiled  in  return  to  the  greetings 
that  met  her  on  every  side.  To  right  and 
left,  before  and  behind  her,  walked  her 
two  aunts  and  her  two  neighbors,  women 
of  substance  and  dignity.  They  walled 
her  about  as  might  a  body-guard,  sending 
eye-blinks  of  defiance  at  the  hilarious 
young  Irishmen.  Mrs.  Orendorf,  of  the 
guard,  went  the  length  of  twisting  her 
head  for  a  final  glare  of  disapproval  at 
Norah,  in  passing.  Norah  laughed.  "  I 
used  to  know  Freda  Burglund  last  week," 
said  she,  "  but  I  guess  she  has  forgotten 
me." 

"  She's  too  busy  with  the  blackboard, 
doing  arithmetic,"  joked  one  of  the  young 
men. 

"You  ought  to  see  old  Fritz!"  cried 
another;  "he's  clean  off  his  base.  He's 
mortgaged  his  farm  to  Nichols.  Nichols 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  257 

didn't  want  to  lend,  but  he  would  have 
the  money." 

"  Well,  I  guess  we'll  give  him  a  run 
for  his  pile." 

"  He's  mortgaged  his  farm !"  said  a 
third  young  man ;  when  his  voiced  sound 
ed,  the  very  slightest  of  movements  of 
Norah's  head  betrayed  that  she  listened. 

"  I'd  mortgage  two  farms  if  I  had 
them,"  was  the  gallant  comment  from 
the  first  man,  "  if  Miss  Norah  needed 
votes." 

The  third  man  felt  the  rustle  of  every 
dollar  he  had,  drawn  out  of  the  bank  that 
morning,  and  now  bulging  his  waistcoat- 
pocket  in  company  with  a  bit  of  ribbon 
that  had  dropped  from  Norah's  hair;  but 
it  was  easier  for  him  to  make  money  than 
talk;  he  was  ready  to  push  the  last  of  it 
over  the  voting-table  for  Norah,  but  he 
wasn't  ready  of  tongue;  he  put  his  big 
honest  hands  in  his  pocket,  and  lest  he 
should  glower  too  openly  at  the  fluent 
blade,  sent  his  eyes  after  Freda  Berg- 
lund's  yellow  head  and  fine  shoulders. 
Norah  could  see  him.  She  stiffened. 

"I  don't  think  it  very  nice  of  her  to 
let  her  father  mortgage  his  farm,"  said 
a  fourth  partisan  of  Norah's;  "he'd  bet 
ter  buy  her  a  watch  out  and  out ;  you  can 
get  a  good  one  for  ten  dollars.  She'd 


258  Harper's  Novelettes 

ought  to  stop  the  old  man.  Her  mother 
would  if  she  were  alive." 

"  Fritz  ain't  so  easy  headed  off,"  said 
the  third  man.  "  Miss  Freda  is  a  very 
nice  young  lady;  I  don't  believe  she 
knows  about  it." 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  yellow  head, 
this  unfortunate  bungler,  who  had  been 
in  love  with  Norah  since  he  had  worn 
knickerbockers,  and  Norah  held  her  own 
head  higher  in  the  air.  And  she  let  Mr. 
Williamson,  the  new  book-keeper  at  Con 
ner's  (he  who  would  have  mortgaged  two 
farms  for  her),  take  her  to  the  ice-cream 
table,  leaving  the  bungling  lover  (chris 
tened  Patrick  Maurice,  his  surname  be 
ing  Barnes,  to  jostle  dismally  over  to  the 
apron  table,  where  Freda  was. 

Norah  laughed  at  Mr.  Williamson's 
jokes,  and  asked  him  questions  about  the 
business  college  from  which  he  had  re 
cently  been  graduated,  and  was  the  pict 
ure  of  soft  animation  and  pleasure;  and 
the  while  her  heart  was  like  lead,  and 
she  hated  Freda  Berglund.  Sitting  at 
the  table  she  heard  snatches  of  talk,  all 
tinctured  by  the  strong  excitement  of  the 
evening.  "I  can't  help  it  if  they  do 
quarrel,"  she  thought,  angrily,  answering 
her  own  accusation;  not  even  to  herself 
did  she  say  that  she  hated  Freda. 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry          259 

Her  eyes  wandered  a  second  over  the 
hall;  they  saw  the  Vicar-General's  pale, 
handsome  face,  a  half-head  taller  than 
Father  Kelly's  good  gray  head;  they  saw 
a  square-jawed,  black-haired,  determined, 
smiling  young  man  behind  the  ballot-box 
turning  his  eyes  from  Pat  Barnes  to  an 
elderly  man  who  held  up  his  hand,  wav 
ing  a  roll  of  bills. 

"  Ah,  I  see  Berglund  has  arrived,"  said 
Williamson.  "  You  are  going  to  do  a  lot 
to  build  the  church,  Miss  Norah." 

Berglund  was  rather  a  short  man;  his 
hair  was  gray;  he  limped  from  the  old 
wound  received  at  Shiloh.  Something 
clutched  at  Norah's  heart  as  she  looked 
at  him.  Williamson  made  some  trivial 
joke;  she  did  not  hear  it;  she  was 
hearing  over  again  the  words  of  the 
German  woman  to  Mrs.  O'Brien  that 
afternoon.  Impulsively  she  sprang  to 
her  feet.  "  Will  you  excuse  me,  Mr. 
Williamson  ?"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  have 
to  go  to  the  voting-booth  one  moment." 
She  went  so  swiftly  that  Williamson  had 
much  ado  to  keep  pace  with  her,  besides 
overpaying  the  waitress  in  his  hurry. 
Father  Kelly  swallowed  a  groan  of  dis 
may  at  the  fresh  strain  on  his  faith  when 
he  perceived  her  beckoning  a  ring-laden 
hand  at  the  custodian  of  votes;  and  the 


260  Harper's  Novelettes 

Vicar  -  General  involuntarily  frowned. 
They  both  with  one  accord  pushed  up  to 
the  table — to  the  visible  relief  of  the 
young  man  behind  it.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do,"  he  confided  to  Father  Kelly, 
before  the  latter  could  ask  the  question 
quivering  on  his  tongue — "  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  Miss  Murray  wants  me  not 
to  take  in  any  more  money  'til  I  hear 
from  her  again.  She'll  be  back.  And 
here's  old  Berglund  wants  three  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars'  worth  for  Miss  Freda, 
and  here's  Barnes  with  a  big  bunch  for 
Miss  Murray,  trying  to  scare  off  the  old 
man.  What  '11  I  do,  Father?" 

"  I  guess  you  better  not  do  anything," 
said  Father  Kelly,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye.  "  Norah  Murray  is  apt  to  have  a 
good  reason  for  her  asking.  Shut  the 
booth  down,  and  I'll  take  charge  while 
you  go  off  for  a  cup  of  coffee." 

The  Vicar-General  nodded  approval. 

"Well,  just's  you  say,  Father,"  said 
the  young  man ;  "  it's  kind  of  unprece 
dented." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  it  means  ?" 
puzzled  the  Vicar-General,  in  an  under 
tone,  as  the  vote-taker  disappeared;  and 
the  crowd  fell  back  a  little  on  Father 
Kelly's  bland  announcement  that  Mr. 
Duffy  had  been  called  off  for  a  few  min- 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  261 

utes,  and  there  would  be  a  recess  in 
voting. 

"  Tis  beyond  me,"  said  Father  Kelly, 
but  watch  the  girl;  she's  gone  straight 
to  Freda  Berglund.  There,  they're  talk 
ing;  they're  going  off  together  with  Mrs. 
Orendorf.  I  can't  give  a  guess,  but  she's 
a  good  girl.  I'm  hopeful." 

Norah  had  indeed  gone  straight  to 
Freda  Berglund.  She  addressed  her  in 
so  low  a  voice  that  only  Freda  and  Mrs. 
Orendorf,  bending  across  Freda's  shoul 
ders  at  that  instant,  the  better  to  cheapen 
a  darning-bag  for  stockings,  could  hear 
her  words.  "  I  want  to  see  you,  Freda," 
she  said.  "Won't  you  and  Mrs.  Oren 
dorf  come  away  somewhere  so  we  can 
talk?  I  have  got  something  important 
to  say." 

"  I— don't— know,"   faltered  Freda. 

"I  want  Mrs.  O'Brien,  too,"  said 
Norah,  firmly.  "It's  all  right;  you'll 
think  it  all  right,  Mrs.  Orendorf.  Come, 
come;  don't  you  see  those  men  who  have- 
been  drinking?  Don't  you  hear  them? 
Don't  you  see  Mrs.  Finn,  who  used  to 
think  there  was  nobody  like  Mrs.  Conner, 
looking  the  other  way  so's  not  to  see  her? 
Can't  you  hear  the  quarrelling  all  round  ? 
They've  stopped  voting,  but  they  haven't 
stopped  quarrelling.  Come!" 


262  Harper's  Novelettes 

Although  she  had  dropped  her  voice, 
the  listeners  were  so  close  that  they 
caught  snatches  of  the  sentences,  and 
craned  their  necks  forward  and  hushed 
their  own  talk  to  listen.  Mrs.  Orendorf 
was  not  of  a  nimble  habit  of  thought; 
but  she  felt  the  electric  impetus  of  the 
Irish  girl;  besides,  was  she  not  bidden? 
Could  she  not  protect  Freda  from  the 
machinations  of  the  enemy? 

"Dot's  so,  Freda,"  she  concluded,  stol 
idly.  "Koom  den,  der  only  blace  vere 
ve  can  talk  py  uns  is  dot  coal-closet  wo 
is  der  eggstry  ice-cream  freezer.  Koom. 
I  see  Meezis  O'Breen." 

Amid  a  startling  pause,  every  eye  ques 
tioning  them,  the  three  picked  up  Mrs. 
O'Brien  and  sought  the  coal-closet.  Then 
Norah  turned.  In  the  dim  light  her 
face  shone  whitely.  Her  full  melodious 
voice  shook  the  least  in  the  world  with 
haste  and  excitement.  "  We've  got  to 
stop  this,"  said  she,  "  and  I  know  how. 
Freda,  I  am  going  to  withdraw  my 
name.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  never  had 
let  them  put  it  on.  You  may  have  the 
watch." 

Freda's  tall  figure  was  only  an  outline 
in  the  shadow;  they  could  not  see  her 
face;  but  the  outline  wavered  backward. 
Her  voice  was  stiff  and  cold. 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry          263 

"  I  don't  think  that's  fair.  You  have 
more  votes  than  I  have." 

Mrs.  O'Brien  opened  her  lips  and  shut 
them  tightly.  It  was  so  dark  no  one  saw 
her,  or  Mrs.  Orendorf,  as  she  sat  on  the 
freezer  gulping  down  inaudible  opinions 
regarding  Norah's  sanity. 

"  I  sha'n't  have,"  retorted  Norah,  im 
patiently,  "  when  your  father  spends  all 
his  money  that  he  mortgaged  his  farm — " 

"  What.!"  cried  Freda. 

"  She  not  know ;  ve  keep  it  von  her," 
muttered  Mrs.  Orendorf.  "  Fritz  make 
me  promise  not  to  tell." 

"Well,  he  didn't  make  me,"  said 
Norah.  "I'll  tell.  He  raised  the  money, 
and  he  was  trying  to  buy  the  votes,  and 
I  saw  him.  I  haven't  any  father.  I  can't 
remember  anything  of  my  father  except 
his  leading  me  about  when  I  was  a  little 
thing  by  the  finger,  and  how  kind  his 
voice  was;  but  I  miss  him — I  miss  him 
all  the  time;  I  know  he  was  a  good 
man,  and  loved  me;  and  he'd  have  done 
anything  for  me,  just  as  your  father  is 
doing;  and  I  couldn't  have  borne  it  to 
have  him,  and  I  was  sure  you  couldn't, 
either.  Freda,  it's  all  wrong,  this  spend 
ing  more  money  than  they  can  afford  on 
us;  I've  felt  it  all  along.  Now  let's  stop 
it.  The  church  has  got  enough." 


264  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Is  it  true  about  papa  ?"  said  Freda, 
in  German. 

"  Ach  Himmel!  Yes,  my  child.  Dost 
thou  not  know  thy  father  yet?  For  all 
he  seems  still  and  stern,  thou  art  more 
than  all  the  world  to  him."  Mrs.  Oren- 
dorf  spoke  in  the  same  tongue;  her  other 
listeners  could  not  understand  it,  but  they 
marvelled  over  the  soft  change  in  her 
voice. 

"It's  true  enough,  Miss  Freda,"  said 
Mrs.  O'Brien,  gently.  "  And  maybe 
you're  in  the  right  of  it,  Norah  darling, 
though  'tis  a  bit  hard  to  give  in ;  but,  yes, 
I'm  sure  you're  right." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Freda,  "  and  it's 
all  been  wrong,  all  wrong.  But  I've  got 
to  see  my  father  first.  Please  come  with 
me." 

As  Norah  had  led  them  in  the  first 
place,  Freda  led  them  by  an  equally  po 
tent  although  entirely  different  force 
now;  it  was  Norah's  turn  to  follow, 
blindly. 

A  hush  everywhere  in  their  wake  be 
trayed  that  a  consciousness  of  their  con 
ference  and  its  importance  was  in  the 
air.  Freda  was  pale,  Norah's  cheeks 
burned,  but  neither  girl  looked  to  the 
right  or  the  left;  and  both  the  matrons 
following  avoided  their  friends'  curiosity 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry          265 

by  a  soldierly  "  eyes  front."  Freda  walk 
ed  up  to  her  father,  who  looked  up,  not 
altogether  pleased,  at  her  light  touch  on 
his  arm. 

"  This  is  no  place  for  thee,  my  child," 
said  he;  something  in  her  face  made  his 
voice  gentler  than  common.  She  looked, 
he  thought,  dimly,  as  she  had  looked 
when  they  got  the  news  about  Otto. 

"  I  have  to  say  something,"  said  Freda. 

"You  beples  stand  back!"  commanded 
Mrs.  Orendorf,  with  a  backward  impulse 
of  her  elbows. 

"Yes,  you  stand  back,  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen,  please,"  begged  Mrs.  O'Brien, 
smiling;  "  'twill  all  be  explained  to  yous." 
Only  Norah  stood  her  ground;  and  Pat 
Barnes  kept  in  the  front  rank  of  the  by 
standers. 

"What  is  it?"  growled  Berglund,  bris 
tling  at  the  circle  of  faces  much  readier 
for  peace  than  war. 

"  She  wants  to  give  the  watch  to  me," 
explained  Freda,  rapidly  repeating  al 
most  word  for  word  Norah's  offer.  As 
she  spoke  suspicion  wrinkled  the  corners 
of  old  Fritz's  eyes. 

"Maypi  sie  know  sie  vill  git  peten," 
he  muttered,  loud  enough  for  Norah  to 
hear.  Then,  as  he  saw  her  color  turn, 
his  hard  face  softened.  "No,"  he  said, 


266  Harper's  Novelettes 

clearly,  "  it  don't  be  dot;  dot  Pat  Barnes 
got  his  pocket  full  of  moneys;  no,  sie  is 
a  goot  schild,  und  her  fader  he  vas  a  goot 
mans;  sie  haf  a  hard  dime  mit  no  fader 
to  look  oudt  for  her."  He  turned  to 
Norah,  whose  swimming  eyes  met  his 
full.  Pat  Barnes  tried  to  cough  down  his 
emotion  and  made  a  strange  squeak;  but 
nobody  smiled;  the  crowded  hall  was 
curiously  still  as  Fritz  limped  up  to 
Norah.  "No,  ve  don't  can  take  it  off 
you ;  can  ve,  Freda  ?"  said  he. 

Freda  slipped  her  hand  into  her 
father's  arm.  "No,  Norah,"  she  said. 
"  I  withdraw  my  name.  And  I'm  prouder 
to  have  my  father  than  all  the  watches  in 
the  world !" 

"  Sure,  you're  right  there,  mavour- 
neen,"  cried  Mrs.  O'Brien.  "  Whisht,  all 
of  you!  These  blessid  children  have  got 
the  way  out  of  all  this  mess;  they're  bet 
ter  Christians  than  anny  of  us."  Mrs. 
Orendorf  frowned  fiercely,  reached  for 
her  handkerchief,  and  wiped  her  face. 

Father  Kelly  felt  it  time  for  his  own 
word,  and  stepped  into  the  circle.  A  sen 
tence  or  two  from  Mrs.  O'Brien  made  the 
quick-witted  old  Irishman  master  of  the 
incident. 

"As  I  understand  it,"  his  full,  rich, 
Celtic  tones  purred,  "  'tis  the  feeling  of 


A  Matter  of  Rivalry  267 

both  these  young  ladies  that  there  is  hard 
feeling  and  strife  and  wasteful  spending 
of  money  coming  out  of  what  was  meant 
to  be  a  good-natured  contest  for  the  good 
of  the  church;  but  this  disputing,  this 
spending,  are  neither  for  the  good  of  the 
church  nor  the  glory  of  God — far  from 
it — God  forgive  us  our  weakness.  So 
both  these  young  ladies  withdrew  their 
names.  We  have  cause  to  be  proud  of 
them  both,  as  they  surely  have  cause  to 
be  proud  of  the  loyalty  of  their  friends." 
(Irrepressible  applause.)  "  And  the  kind 
est  thing  their  friends  can  do  is  to  shake 
hands  all  around."  (A  voice — in  point 
of  fact,  the  voice  of  the  widow  Murray: 
"  But  what  will  the  sodality  do  with  the 
watch?")  "The  watch  is  the  property 
of  the  parish."  Here  Father  Kelly 
paused,  his  persuasive  argument  rolling 
back  on  himself;  he  didn't  know  what  to 
do  with  the  watch.  It  was  too  perilous 
to  run  the  risk  of  new  discords  over  it. 
The  priest  cast  a  distress  rocket  in  a  look 
at  the  Vicar-General ;  but  the  Vicar-Gen 
eral  perfidiously  smiled  and  looked  away. 
Up  spoke  Norah,  her  sweet  voice  not 
quite  steady,  her  cheeks  crimson — but 
they  all  heard  her :  "  It's  a  large  gold 
watch.  Why  can't  we  give  it  to  Father 
Kelly?" 


268  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  Vicar-General's  lifted  hand  stilled 
the  shout  that  rose. 

"  Why  not  ?"  called  he.  "  Father  Kelly 
is  not  a  young  lady,  but  he  is  popular." 

And  Father  Kelly,  putting  both  hands 
over  his  blushes,  ran  away  from  the  fran 
tic  roar  of  applause  and  laughter.  The 
Vicar-General  pursued  him  to  say: 

"You  were  right,  Kelly;  she  is  a  good 
girl — and  a  wise  one!" 

Perhaps  the  only  person  in  the  hall 
who  was  not  either  shouting  or  scream 
ing,  according  to  sex, was  Norah's  mother; 
and  the  cloud  on  her  face  lightened  when 
she  saw  Norah  coming  to  her  on  Pat 
Barnes's  arm  and  Pat's  face  aglow. 

Freda  saw  them  too;  she  slipped  her 
hand  into  her  father's  arm. 

"  Liebchen I"  said  he,  stroking  it  with 
his  rough  fingers,  "  I  will  get  thee  a 
watch  some  day,  never  fear!" 

But  it  was  not  the  thought  of  a  watch 
that  made  Freda's  heart  lighter  than  for 
many  a  day.  "I  don't  want  a  watch," 
said  she.  "  Oh,  I'm  sorry  for  Norah,  who 
can't  even  remember  about  her  father!" 


THE    END 

• 


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